


A Shadow Over Genesis

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Summerland [10]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Prince ‘verse, Horror, Incest, M/M, Magnificat of the Damned ‘verse, Multi, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-11-05 16:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17922155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: He woke beside Finwë when the Unbegotten opened their eyes to the starlight over Cuiviénen. Brother, lover, twin-soul.His name, then, was Élernil. The Maia of Arda he met, the folk of stream and pool and rock named himStarflame.He should have been, had Míriel’s prophecy run true, been Fëanor’s father, but a shadow lay over the genesis of the Quendi. A Darkness in the North. That Darkness swallowed Élernil and after, when he emerged from the black crucible he, and a few like him, were changed,other.This is the story of Élernil, who became Edenel of theIthiledhil, a terror to the orcs ever after. All the ancient legends that spoke of white demons, ghosts, eaters-of-hearts, began with Edenel and theIthiledhil.





	1. Memories of Light

**Author's Note:**

> This story will cover Cuiviénen, Utumno and after, and touches on the relationship between Edenel (then Élernil) and his twin, Finwë. Those who have read Magnificat of the Damned, know that Élernil was one of those captured and taken to Utumno, where he ‘changed’. He, and the few like him, took a new name, the _Ithiledhil_. Élernil changed his name to Edenel.  
>   
> The narrative frame of this story borrows from the series _Summerland_ , and is placed within it.  
> Edenel is telling his history to Claire James from Narya’s _The Ways of Paradox_ and _Summerland._. I have Narya’s permission.  
> When these events were happening, and ever after, Élernil/Edenel did not speak of them to anyone, save briefly to Vanimórë. Many thousands of years later, and in another world, he now works his memories into a tale.  
> The story follows on from Night of Embers.  
>   
> Please note that this story is the same ‘verse as _Dark Prince_ and _Magnificat of the Damned_ series, simply set at an earlier time.  
> Please heed the warnings and the ratings. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**~ A Shadow Over Genesis ~**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**~ Memories of Light ~**

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ A soft clap of silence. The dirge of the wind, the tiny, homely sounds of the simmering pot on the stove, filled the room. Edenel straightened.

Claire said, ‘So has Maglor killed, and Coldagnir.’

There was no accusation in her words, no fear, either. He turned his head, stared at her; some of the tension ebbed from his shoulders.  
‘Thank you.’

‘What did you think...you thought I would reject you? After what I _saw_?’

‘I was not quite sure.’ He made a small gesture of apology with his hand. ‘This is not at all like the world I have been accustomed to. There is violence, conflict, but your own life — and the times you live in, at least in this country — has been peaceful. You have not known war, or the power of dark gods. And that, Claire, is so incredibly hard for me to comprehend.’

‘I can’t argue with that,’ she replied calmly. ‘Although our history has produced people who could give the Dark Lords a run for their money, I assure you. And Maglor...well, when I let myself think about it, what he had done...’

‘That he had killed? The Kinslayings?’

She rinsed their mugs at the sink. ‘Many people demonise the Fëanorions, you know. I,’ she added, ‘am not one of them. Perhaps you’d think, with my legal background, I would be. But coming to know Maglor...Well.’ She shrugged. ‘How could I _not_ question?’

A little white flame of anger ignited in his mind. ‘Many people? It is easy to blame when does not know the full story.’ He tasted the fury on his tongue like metal. ‘when one does not take into account what lies behind events. When one strips those events and their protagonists of all humanity, all pathos. And it is far _too_ easy to fall into the error of self-righteous posturing, to wield the cold hammer of judgement, as Námo did.’

She said, ‘I had a dream once, not long after I first met Maglor, of his being judged, for his acts by Námo. And under the judge’s robes and wigs there was nothing at all.* There was something awful in that, so cold. Nothing to touch, nothing to appeal to.’

‘Your dream was a true one, Claire. No compassion, no mercy, no pity. How it would please him that there are so many who never question.’ He laughed shortly, mirthless as the bitter wind outside. ‘Well, what the _Ithiledhil_ did was indeed cold-blooded murder. We were not the same, after we...burned free. I had never considered killing anyone before I was captured. It was not a thought that even crossed my mind.’ He pushed away from the heat of the Aga. ‘Oh, we were not perfect, peaceful creatures, Claire, drifting under the stars, and singing, but taking a life? Never. But when I saw what had happened to...what they became...’ His throat suddenly felt piled with coals, as raw and red-hot as when he had woken from screaming. He took a moment to breathe around it. ‘All I — we — wanted to do was destroy them. I never think of killing an orc as murder.’ Her face turned toward him, pale in the near-dark, the tan of the summer now faded. ‘I am sorry. We never talked about it, after. We found ways to...deal with it, but speaking of it was not one of them.’

In the dark, her eyes traced his face. ‘Come back into the living room,’ she said as if reaching a decision, and moved silent and sure through the unlit house. There was a faint cold draft in the dim hallway, and she closed the door behind them. The fire was coiling down to sleep. Edenel added logs as Claire sat on the sofa, smoothing her hands over her knees.  
’You’re right that my life has been peaceful up until last summer,’ she said. ‘but innocent people are precipitated into war and violence all the time and have to cope with it. Just like you were.’

‘As _you_ were,’ he said quietly. ‘And Maglor. And his father and brothers, and all those who were at Alqualondë and lifted weapons to fight for those they loved. They fought out of desperation and love, Claire. Not only at Alqualondë, but in Doriath and the Havens of Sirion, too.’

She frowned into the fire. ‘The Silmarils...’

‘Are part of Fëanor’s soul. The only part they could ever touch after his death. And hoping, hoping that somehow, some way it would be enough to bring him back from death. Oathbound, doomed, cursed—‘

Her hands slid over her eyes. ‘I know.’

‘When we learned from the Elves of Ossiriand, from the Sindar of Doriath, of the Noldor’s return, I wanted to see them. Perhaps I changed too much or not enough, but they were my people. We could not speak to them, but—‘

‘Why not?’ She lowered her hands to her lap.

The flames rustled, searched out a pocket of sap in a log and spat sparks. He moved the fireguard.  
‘I could not speak to them before the Great Journey, either. We were...ashamed.’

‘Ashamed?’ Her voice was complex with undertones of anger. ‘Ah yes, the shame of a survivor. Survivor guilt.’

‘Do you feel that?’ he asked curiously.

‘I don’t think so. It was me or Thuringwethil.’ She looked up at him. ‘I had some difficulty dealing with the violence I was capable of, but I understand how people kill in self-defence.’

He nodded. ‘And from love or out of grief and horror?’

Her mouth twisted to one side, wryly. ‘Well, I didn’t run away from Maglor, in the end. In fact, I ran _to_ him. Straight to Venice.’

‘Although I had no children, if events had played out differently, he would have been my grandson, both in this world and in the one I came from. I am glad you ran to him.’

Lament of the wind, snap of the fire, the creak of the old house settling. Gently, her breathing and her words soft, as if fearing to startle: ‘Why were you not?’

Edenel sat down beside her, extended his hand. Claire placed her own into it.  
‘Do you truly want to know?’

Her eyes flicked aside, not in avoidance, but a glance back, remembering, replaying, her reaction to what she had felt of his memories, judging her own self, her strength.  
‘I think...I _should_ know.’ She spoke carefully. ‘Not out of prurient curiosity, but because now I have to fully comprehend a world which I always believed was fictional. Just as you are living in one which I know is very strange to you.’ He smiled in acknowledgment.  
I didn’t live it, am not an Elf, but the more I know—‘ She lifted one shoulder. ‘the more I can feel myself as part of the tale, and understand those who lived it.’

He said, ‘You _are_ part of the tale now.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s it, really, Eventually, the people I knew before this, my family, those I love will be...gone, and I will move away from being Claire James, because I’ll have to. She will have to disappear somewhere, a faked death, probably. I think it would have to be that.’ The words were level, almost distant. ‘I couldn’t put my family through the agony of just vanishing and them hoping year upon year that I will one day walk through the door. And then, after, those I know will be those from that fictional world, that story.’ Her breath broke a little. She pressed a hand to her mouth.

‘I am so sorry,’ he murmured.

She leaned forward. He drew her against his chest, held her close. Yes, to die to one’s own people, he had done that, too.

‘No. It’s all right. I have accepted this. I _have._ And I told Maglor I would have chosen it.’ She sat back, eyes gleaming with unshed tears that she blinked away. ‘And so, yes, I believe I need to know, for whatever comes after. The future. To become closer to that world I never believed in. But telling me of your past is going to cause you pain. Just as Maglor always feels pain when he thinks of his past. And he is _always_ thinking of it. I don’t want to put you through it. Is my reason for needing to know a good enough one?’

‘My dear Claire,’ he said helplessly. ‘There is always pain, yes. Our memories never erode. And yes, your reason is good enough. You do need to be absorbed into our world, its people, how we feel, how we have lived. But this will be no mere retelling, like a story told at night. With your blood, what you felt from Maglor even before Summerland —‘ He hesitated, frowning. ‘There is no possible way for you not to _feel_ it, not to see it. And some of it — much of it —‘

Her warm fingers closed about his. ‘I knew a nurse once, who said a patient apologised to her for having to dress a dreadful wound, because it was not nice to look at. She told them that nurses didn’t enter their profession to see nice things. Well, I told you I have accepted what happened to me, and what I am, with all that implies. I don’t expect it to be pleasant. And I am _not_ going to turn back, Edenel, just because it is terrible. I _have_ to move forward. And it didn’t happen to me. It is _you_ I am worried about.’

‘Ash in the wind,’ he said. ‘And so long ago even the pattern of the stars have changed.’

‘What is memory to an Elf? Hearthstone and touchstone and their pillars of eternity.’

‘Yes,’ he said, feeling the truth of her words touch him like a finger to the heart and thinking that she already did comprehend, instinctively, in ways that went far deeper than any learned knowledge, or even sympathy. Sympathy was easy to feel; to place oneself inside the pain of another was to make oneself completely vulnerable. It was an act of trust, even love.  
‘I just — ‘ Still he hesitated. ‘I have never told this tale in full to anyone. Aelios — Nemrúshkeraz, as he was named then — was there, in Utumno. Sauron, and Melkor. Vanimórë knows, but even among ourselves, and after, the _Ithiledhil_ would never talk of it.’

She said nothing, either to persuade or dissuade him, simply waited, holding his hand, a touch of comfort, accessibility, and, he now knew, empathy.

‘Very well,’ he whispered. ‘But, Claire, you _must_ tell me to stop if it becomes unbearable.’

‘And you too,’ she said.

‘I will.’ His mouth went dry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 

Darkness devoured him, tearing himself from himself. Eating him alive. The person he had been disappearing in raw, bloody chunks down the throat of corruption.

He was not sure, existing within a scream of horror, if there was anything of him left, whether he had been entirely consumed.

Once, he had been something else. Once, there had been...there had been...

‘Stars.’

 _I_ must _remember, remember..._

_I remember..._

Like a man whose grip was being torn away from a high ledge, he was losing _him._

 _Remember..._  
  
_I was..._ quendë.  
  
_My name was..._  
  
_Élernil._  
  
  
  
He said into the quiet under the storm. ‘My name was Élernil.’  
  
‘My first sight was the stars. I thought I saw a man walking through them, part of them, as they were part of him, his hair like a cloud across the cosmos. A god walking to a confrontation, or into war...’

He would not, then have explained it thus, but later, when words flowered in his mind, he thought of it as a hand bringing him to life, touching him out of a long sleep — or rather a mind, a mind of such power his own could not encompass it. Yet it was familiar too, so that he felt himself pursuing it, questioning. But ever it eluded him; he retained only impressions of an adamantine will, of impossible _light_ , raging passion, of love, all forced, in one blinding moment, into him.  
  
‘My first feeling was of fire.’  
  
Whatever was written or believed, it was not a gentle awakening. He was set alight. Air tore into his lungs like fire, flashed through his blood, burning. But there was comfort, too, in the warmth of a hand clasped with his own.  
  
For time unmeasured, he lay there, holding the hand linked with his, and the starlight poured into his eyes, soaked into blood, bone, sinew.  
  
Born to starlight, born to burn.  
  
It became their unconscious custom to watch sunset and star-rise; only the largest stars were visible first and then, as night deepened, the sky blazed with them. One sweeping river dominated, climbing from the northern horizon, almost bisecting the sky. One could lose oneself in the light, feel oneself part of it. Little wonder they named themselves the People of the Stars.  
  
And so, starlight; then, his twin, whose eyes he looked into, dark, dark eyes, almost black with a silver sheen. Brother. Twin. Soul. Beloved.  
  
There had to be a way to explain, articulate what he saw, he felt.  
There was.  
At first, their spoken language was as simple and beautiful as the call of water-birds; slowly it gained complexity and depth as they fashioned words, names for all they saw, everything they felt and imagined.  
  
‘There is fire in thine eyes,’ Finwë told him. ‘It is like the light in the stars.’  
  
When knowledge unfolds, like a seed, like a rosebud, one does not question it if one has known nothing else: this nutmeat is good to eat, this flesh, fish, fruit can ferment and be made into a drink, honey into mead, berries into wine, this hide and that fur can be used to decorate the body. This rock holds ore, minerals, that hard stone can be chipped to create a weapon, this wood bent to make a bow...  
  
They called it the Maker’s Touch. All were agreed that somewhere beyond the world, the bright-burning stars, was another intelligence, and they were its offspring. Had they not felt it, that vast Overmind? Some, like Élernil, viewed they had seen it as they awoke, the Power that brought the stars, and themselves into being, striding across the face of the universe.  
  
Under starlight they first discovered passion, the pleasures of the body, their own and one another’s. There was absolute trust between them, no question of force, only desire and attraction, and a deep, inborn instinct. And so:  
‘Am I hurting thee?’  
  
Finwë gasped under him. ‘Yes, but...no, please, I want... _there_. Yes!’ And moaned as Élernil rode into him harder, harder, his will torn away by building pleasure. It felt, then, as if he were within those immense stars, burning with them, white fire in his veins, searing in the rush of his blood.  
  
And so, they walked the world with eyes attuned to wonder, to beauty, to discovery, to joy, and in the beginning, the three tribes mingled freely, but dwelt separately. Élernil was drawn from the sea-shore to the hills, the whistling winds, the leaping streams, the wildness of the untamed land that rose to icy teeth. Sometimes, when Finwë was otherwise occupied, he went alone to hunt the horned goats, or sometimes just to walk, to climb, to glory in the sweep of the wind through his hair, to wonder what land or sea lay beyond the spine of the eastern mountains.  
  
The snows had long melted, and the sun fell warm as he leapt up the track to one of his favourite places: a series of small waterfalls cleaving down through hollows of green fern. The pools glowed like clear gems of green and blue in the shadows of the trees. One could find gold here, too, washed down from the highlands, nuggets as big as a fist. He had, under the tutelage of Mahtan, worked one into a necklace for Finwë, setting it with freshwater pearls. Today, though, he was not searching for gold or pearls, but merely solitude. There was a difference in Finwë, some change in the dynamic of their relationship. Élernil did not know how to address it, was not even sure if he had the right to.  
  
It had come soon after wonder of the children, the woman-born. At first only a few, and then a spate of them, as if the first births unlocked some hitherto dormant mystery in the women. The parents, instead of wandering where they would, taking lovers where they desired, and moving on, remained as a couple. The mothers said this was necessary while the children grew, and the fathers hardly wished to be parted from these small miracles.  
Élernil was delighted and awed, as were they all, but there was no awakening in his soul to father a child of his own. He felt that those new families were his children, that it was his duty to provide for them, and that he could not do so were he himself a father.  
  
‘Thou hast never been with a woman, hast thou?’ Finwë asked him.

Élernil smiled. ‘Not yet.’ He would, he was sure, but now was more than content with Finwë and the other lovers he had lain with in the sudden heat of lust.  
  
‘It is different. They do not gain their pleasures the way we do.’  
  
‘So I understand.’ He had not known Finwë had lain with a woman, but it did not surprise him and he was not jealous. His brother was as entitled as him to seek pleasure away from his side. ‘The ways of the Maker are mysterious and marvellous, are they not?’

A smile curled Finwë’s lovely mouth, a little secretive, lingering as on a pleasant memory.  
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What must it be like, a child created from us, growing in the woman? Would that not be wonderful?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Élernil agreed.  
  
‘Something we have created.’  
  
‘Yes but not ours,’ Élernil said thoughtfully. ‘Not like these boots are mine, this knife belongs to thee. Their souls are their own and unique. _Of_ us, but not owned by us. Ours to nurture and teach, not to own.’  
  
‘Thinks’t thou they remember anything of before their birth?’ Finwë wondered.  
  
‘ _We_ remember nothing before we woke.’ They carried the trellis of deer-hide to the smoke-house.  
  
‘No, but we dream.’ Finwë scrubbed his hands at the trough, passed the soap to Élernil. It had been made fragrant with lavender.  
  
‘What dost thou dream, my dear?’ Élernil cast him a teasing look. ‘Anything thou art not sharing with me?’  
  
Finwë’s black lashes fanned down over his eyes. ‘I thought we shared all out dreams.’  
  
It was the first time his twin had hidden something from him. Elérnil sensed it, words concealed behind smoke. They could share dreams, and always had until now, but they were not identical souls, did not always have the same thoughts.  
No-one would have mistaken them for anything other than brothers; both bore the stormcloud of black hair, the same clean-cut features but Finwë’s eyes were like the black pearls they found at times in oyster shells, and Élernil’s silver as the stars. Now, and perhaps for the first time, Elérnil realised that they were different. He was the more dominant; in their lovemaking he possessed, save at those times he chose to lay down for his partner. When they hunted it was he who pushed to the fore; as often as not, the one who made the kill. It seemed perfectly natural. Finwë was by far the better meditator, quieter, liking to build (he had designed and created their first home), spending more time with his people, listening to them.  
Élernil had _known_ that they were not the same but had not, until now, questioned what it meant, that Finwë was his own person, that he felt the need to conceal something.  
  
But Finwë was a reflection of him. From the moment they had gazed into one another’s eyes there had been nothing but the most complete connection, an understanding that even their evolving language could not encompass.  
  
There were other lovers, of course; there was no word for monogamy, no reason why, if two people felt desire, they should not lay together. Élernil’s second was Ingwë of the white hair and gentian eyes after a long hunt when both were bloody and roused by the chase and the kill.  
  
As he sat beside the stream, dipped a hand to drink, a smile tugged his mouth at the memory. Watching the shadows turn the cupped water to a deep, clear blue, He recalled when he had first seen Ingwë dancing among the festal fires on the Longest Night, long hair flowing behind him like a snow-plume from the mountain peaks. His eyes were this dense colour, jewel-bright against his pale skin and hair.  
  
There were two Great Gatherings of the tribes: one when the sun was at its highest and hottest in the sky, the other when at its lowest and the days were long and dark. Two Lesser Gatherings interspersed these. In the interim times, the tribes tended to keep to themselves, but groups came together to hunt at whiles, especially when the mighty aurochs moved north to the salt flats.  
Only the strongest hunted the aurochs, and the leaders were always the foremost among them. It was not only expected of them, it appeared to be part of what they were.  
  
Everyone, Élernil knew, had one or more talents, seemingly inborn, that flowered and grew, such as Míriel, whose slender hands wove beauty, Rúmil, whom had conceived the idea of fashioning the spoken words into script which he named _Sarati_ , drawing the runes on slate and then, later, bark-paper and vellum. There was Daeron, whose peerless voice seemed to hold all the tones of water and wind, and Beleg of the Bow. The leaders, like himself, and Finwë enjoyed learning every new skill that bloomed from the Quendi’s minds but Élernil’s primary instinct, beyond all others, was to protect and serve his people — including his brother. He had, in those earlier times, no recognition of danger, no inkling it existed, none of them did; all he knew was that he wanted them to have all they needed, to watch over them, to see them prosper in serenity, to grow in strength and beauty — which desire only increased when the children began to arrive. Each of the leaders seemed to share this sense of deep responsibility.  
  
With the Sun tracking higher in the sky each day, the curve of the cold stars shifting across the heavens, and blossom starring the land, word came from Beleg that the Kine had returned to the southern shore.  
  
‘Wilt thou go?’ Finwë asked, moving to the rack of spears and examining them for sharpness, running his fingers down the wood.  
  
‘Dost thou wish to?’ Élernil questioned. ‘I will cede thee my place. Or Amathon could hold our people and we both go.’  
  
If the hunt was short, they often went together, but when it meant days and nights away, one or other of them remained with the tribe, just as Ingwë appointed his Second, his sister, Indis, to ‘hold’ the people, as they called it.  
  
Finwë turned, smiled like light. ‘Thou art yearning to go, almost dancing,’ he teased. ‘Another time. Go. Take Amathon. He enjoys it as much as thee.’  
  
  
  
There was no cruelty in the Quendi when they hunted and toward the Kine, they harboured respect. The mighty beats were swift, strong and could be aggressive, but for this very reason there was a thrill in the hunt.  
The herds were never large, a score or more in each, but the sound they made when running shook the ground.  
  
Élernil had never been able to practice his method of taking one of the huge beasts down. He had simply gauged their speed and his own, and the distance between them. When the enormous bull charged, he stood his ground and then leaped, flipping over, to land on its back, the hot-grass smell of it steaming from its hide as its muscles surged under him. Then, leaning from one knee, he brought the blade of his long knife slicing through the jugular vein and sprang from its back, rolling and coming up, watching as the beast gradually slowed, blood pumping from the wound and, staggering, collapsed.  
  
Ingwë was taking another of the bulls in the same manner, making it look effortless, easy. He strolled across to Élernil, smiling, the long tail of his white hair swinging behind him.  
‘Shall we feast under the stars this night, brother?’ he asked ceremoniously and Élernil replied in like manner: ‘When all is done for the tribes, brother, we shall feast.’  
  
‘All’ meant butchering and salting, sending back the meat and hide on travois, but a little was kept back for the hunters. Moving away from the herd, they began their task.  
  
The Sun was lowering itself to rest beyond a distant cloud-bank when Élernil went to a stream and stripped to wash. He gathered a handful of wild mint for its clean fragrance, stepped to his knees in the cold water.  
  
‘May I join thee?’  
  
Élernil looked over his shoulder, deliberately provocative. ‘Pease do.’  
  
Pitting himself against the aurochs, against other Quendi in the Games held on the Longest Day, always roused him, but until recently had always slaked his hungers in Finwë. Yet Ingwë had drawn his eyes from the first.  
  
Ingwë did not submit without a fight, but they were laughing, even as the wild almost-violence of the hunt sang in their blood. Élernil mounted Ingwë then, later, lay under him. It was not his first time; he had wanted Finwë to know what it felt like to possess another man.  
  
After when they had bathed again, lay in the grass, Ingwë said, lazily smiling: ‘I had a wager with Indis that I would have thee first.’  
  
‘A _wager_?’ Élernil laughed.  
  
‘Well, chance favoured me, as it turned out.’ He rolled onto his side. ‘But my sister admires thee. She has already sampled Finwë.’  
  
Indis was a bold beauty with a walk that drew the eye like a winter fire. Élernil was not surprised, only that Finwë had not named her.  
‘And hast thou?’ he inquired.  
  
‘I like Finwë well enough, but I prefer a little more fire.’ Ingwë’s beautiful face became suddenly serious. ‘Thou doth outshine him, Élernil, and I think he knows it and resents it, and resents himself for feeling thus. Thou hast always spoken of him as thy twin, but thou art not the same. Consider this a friendly warning.’  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

She came to him in the fall of the year, Míriel, the clever seamstress, with her silver hair and eyes and sweet smile. He set aside his work, greeted her as she looked around around the forge, and then offered him hangings for the house, embroidered by her own hands. She had gifted him before, with drapes, coverlets, remarkable work (all of her work was beautiful) spun of flax and wool, delicately coloured.

‘Thou art very kind,’ he said.

‘I hope one day soon,’ she said, ‘to embroider cradle-clothes for my son.’

‘Thou art with child?’ he asked. ‘My deepest congratulations, Míriel.’ It had become custom for the women to approach the tribes leaders, who would then call their people together. The woman would step forth and announce that she was with child, and the father would come, proud and tall, to take her hand.

‘Ah, no, not yet.’ She let her delicate hand trail closer, touching his back, skimming down it to curve over his hips, around to his phallus. There was no modesty among the women of the Quendi and no need for it, either. He felt a sudden, reciprocal stir of interest, and turned, smiling into her eyes. Then—

— Darkness fell on him like a thunderclap. No light. No air. He could not breathe; his throat was swollen shut, aching, raw. Hands that scorched, touched his shrinking flesh, a voice like metal scouring metal resounded in his mind, sheared through his nerves. The world contracted into...into... _pain_ , blackness, endless screaming.

‘Élernil,’ Miriel was saying anxiously. ‘What is it?’

Colour and light snapped across his eyes and he blinked. His heart was pounding, breath coming in pants.  
‘I...’ He pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘I am not sure. Something. A waking dream.’

‘What of?’ she asked, then turned to hook down a skin of mead and poured it. He nodded his thanks and drank.  
‘I could not see. Such darkness. Such pain.’

‘Pain?’ Her voice was sharp.

He had known pain; when a man first breached him, when he first practiced with a knife and cut himself, but those instances had been brief, soon over. There was more, he now knew, pain that was impossible to ignore, that could cleave the soul in twain.

‘Shall I fetch Finwë?’

There was no need. Finwë entered the forge at a run, took one look at Élernil’s face and gripped him by the shoulders. ‘What happened?’

He shook his head. Míriel said worriedly: ‘He spoke of darkness. Pain. But there was nothing here. Nothing.’

‘It is gone now.’ Except it had not, it seemed to leave his mind and body feeling sore, racked. He could not explain, did not want to even remember, wanted, more than anything, that his twin should never feel what he had felt. ‘I am well, my dear,’ to Finwë. ‘Wilt thou give me a moment with Míriel, please?’

She was watching him with concern on her exquisite face. Behind her, a golden leaf drifted past the window, there was the gentle scent of mist, of decay, of the season curling in upon itself to sleep.

‘Lady,’ he said. ‘I am honoured, for thou art skilled and beautiful, but I...shall sire no children.’

‘Thou art the leader of the tribe,’ she protested. ‘How canst thou say that? Is it not thy duty to beget strong children? And I have dreamed of a son of thy blood.’ One slim hand pressed to her stomach. ‘A son of fire.’

Mutely, he regarded her, an echo following her words like smoke after a candle has been blown out. It was known, now, that the women could dream of their children, their names, their attributes. How could she be wrong? But she was. In this, he knew, she was. A sudden sorrow took him. ‘Míriel...it is not my seed that will give them to thee. I wish it were otherwise, I truly do.’ He took her free hand. ‘They would be fine children, strong, courageous, skilled as thou art—‘

She snapped her hand away. ‘Thou art rejecting me because of _him._ ’

‘No,’ he replied steadily. ‘Finwë is the star of my heart, but that is not the reason I say nay, and I am not rejecting _thee._ ’

‘Thinks’t thou I lie to thee about my dreams, then? Have not all we women dreamed true?’

‘Thou hast,’ he agreed, troubled.

‘And yet thou wouldst say I am wrong?’ she pressed him.

‘I have to. I am sorry, lady.’

She took a step toward him, meeting his eyes, pushing her conviction. ‘I am not wrong, Élernil, and thou doth place too much of thine heart in thy brother’s hands.’

Whirling, she threw the latch on the door and strode out. Élernil looked out of the window.

Two more leaves fell.

 

 

He left the settlement soon after, moving alone into the foothills, as if the loneliness of the land and the autumn winds could sweep away the terror — yes, the word was terror, was horror, thing of blackness that churned the stomach, set ice in the veins and weakness in the muscles, the antithesis of joy and pleasure, of all he had known. A negation of all that was good. He did not know what it was, but there were some who might.

There were other spirits in the woods, the water, the air, who melted, sometimes into a human form and spoke to the Quendi, before vanishing into the land once more.  
It was one of these that had warned Élernil of a Darkness in the north. She came to him as a spirit of the mountain lake, hair falling like rain about a face more female than male, eyes deep as the still tarns in the heather.

The Quendi had no concept of darkness. Even in the Cold Season, when the Sun tracked lower and lower in the sky and sank early to its rest, and mists came up from Helcar, blotting the stars, it was never truly dark. A luminescence lay over the sea and the sky and in their shining eyes.

‘It is a Power,’ she had told Élernil. ‘Like those from outside the world who captured us long ago.’

In a time beyond reckoning, the ‘gods’ had come from the outside, and claimed the world for their own. They made war, tipping seas from their beds, raising and crushing mountains, spilling fire across the lands. They had also, she said, captured many of the spirits of the world, taking them as slaves. In this, they were no different from the Dark.

‘Long ago they fled across the Great Sea, but the Dark One one remains. In the Mountains of Iron is his lair, where the land becomes perpetual ice and snow.’ She swept a slim hand north. ‘He and his servants come like a terror in the dark and steal us away. Be wary, for his shadow moves south. The war is not over, we think. It has been silenced, but the Darkness has never gone away. Thou shouldst leave this land.’

‘Leave?’ He was startled. His life was here, beside the star-reflecting inland sea, the rich, rolling country to the South, in the deep Wildwood, on the slopes of the Orocarni Mountains that stretched white and immaculate to the sky, and he considered no ‘god’ but the idea of the Maker.  
‘Why dost thou not leave?’ he asked her.

‘Ah, we cannot, _quendë_. Unlike thou, we are bound to the place that bore us. Pool or rock or tree. The spirits of sea and air have more freedom, but even they are bound to this world.’

‘We too, are bound to this world,’ he said.

She tilted her head, stared into his eyes. ‘No,’ she refuted flatly. ‘There is more for thee. A fire beyond the stars.’

Disturbed, Élernil, on his return, called a conclave, relaying the warning to the tribal leaders, but they could come to no decision save the sending out of patrols. They had no concept of danger, no insight into the minds of gods, no real idea of what they were even looking for, but it was at this time they began to fashion armour for their bodies, to meld an alloy of tin and bronze for sword, arrow and spear tips. One of them, Beleg, made for himself a great back bow and arrows fletched with grey goose feathers that sang a keening song of death when he launched them.

They did not make swords, not then, but weapons that grew out of their hunting. Ingwë carried a great spear, as did Finwë and Élernil, while Olwë and Elwë used both bows and long knives. They hardened leather and reinforced it with tiny bronze rings, braided their long hair off their faces.

But, at first, nothing strange stirred in the lands to the North. Nothing stirred now, but a shadow in Élernil’s heart.

He camped beside the tarn, listened to the larks go up into the fragrant air. The water lay still under the eye of the sun for a long time, unruffled by the warm wind and then, finally it stirred, lapped the bank. He watched as it crept higher onto the grass, moulded itself, taking shape, and she stepped out, silver and blue and green. She smelt of the still, cool deep places of her home.

‘Thou didst come here for a purpose, _quendë_?’

‘I did, and I thank thee for speaking to me.’ He rose, laying a hand on his breast in a gesture of respect. It seemed to amuse her a little. ‘I believe...I have...dreamed of the darkness thou didst speak of, lady.’

Her laugh was like the fall of water into the pool. ‘Lady? One of thy women? I am not one of them, Élernil Starflame. We are neither the one nor the other.’

‘I did not mean to offend,’ he said, then: ‘Why dost thou call me that?’

A gracile shrug. ‘It is in thee, _quendë_. The living flame. We all name thee thus.’ She moved around him. ‘No, we are neither the one nor the other. Why would we be when we do not breed as thee? We found thy forms pleasing to the eye, and the gods also take thy shape. They must have had some knowledge of thee before they ever came here. Before thou didst even wake. So either thou art created in their image or they are copyists, because they, like us, take other forms too.’

He felt a chill in the benign air. ‘But how could they know about us?’

‘I know not. Our knowledge goes back only to our awakening, as thine. But we are far older than thee. Some of us woke when the world was unformed, when there was no grass, no water, only fire. And then _they_ came.’ She folded sinuously to sit beside him. ‘First only _he_ came. The Dark one, and tried to impose order upon the world, so it is said. And then _they_ followed him, and warred against him.’

Élernil stared into the water, trying to think. ‘I do not understand,’ he said at last. ‘this conflict thou namest _war._ ’

‘No more do we. It is alien to us. But we think the Dark wanted this world for his own and the others tried to prevent it, and not from any pure motive, or why would they imprison our people? No; they claim it also.’ She tilted her head. ‘Tell me what thou hast dreamed.’

‘It was not so much a dream,’ he said slowly. ‘It seemed that when waking, I fell into a place of darkness and pain.’

‘Thou knowest nothing of such things,’ she remarked. Reaching out a hand, she touched his forehead. ‘Let me read thee.’

Her fingertips were cool, soothing; he felt the trickle of water down his brow, his cheeks, and closed his eyes.  
Abruptly, her hand withdrew. She stepped back from him, water streaming down her, blurring her features, her form.

‘Starflame,’ she said, her voice going deep and cold as a well. ‘Thou must go, leave here, gather thy people and take them south, far from here. This is no dream. But it may be the future.’ She collapsed into herself, into glimmering spray, and was gone. The water agitated, and then grew still.

He stared at the pool. The wind veered, blowing from the North, and the water felt like ice against his skin.

 

 

 

 

 

*From The Ways of Paradox, by Narya (Narya_Flame)

 

 


	2. ~ Through Dark-Dreaming Shadows ~

  
  


**~Through Dark-Dreaming Shadows ~**

 

 

 

 

~ The falling year mourned the passing of the light and stripped the trees bare with her tears. The sea deepened from blue to grey, furred with white under the gales. The land, however, remained green and mild, and no snow fell until after the Long Night. Then, the southern storms turned away, fled before the ice of the North. Élernil sensed the wind rise that night; thought he heard, behind his dreams, the howl of wolves.

He jolted out of a dream of darkness, of footsteps on stone approaching, inexorable, terrible. When they reached him...  
His heart swooped, slammed sickeningly against his ribs; every limb jerked as if against a spasm of pain.

’It is just the wind,’ Finwë murmured, his hand moving sleepily in Élernil’s hair. ‘The snows have come.’

‘Just the wind,’ Claire said gently.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, I thought I heard—‘

She glanced toward the window. ‘What?’

‘Nothing but the memory of a dream.’ His smile felt strained around the edges. He searched the grey eyes. ‘Thou hast lived over a hundred years, Claire, just as one can live a lifetime in dream between nightfall and sunrise.’

‘A hundred years?’ she repeated, eyes widening.

‘More. A hundred and fifty by your measure of time. We did not begin to count the turning of the year for some time, but yes. I remember every day, every night. And it does seem like a dream, now, a dream of innocence.’

‘Yes, it felt like innocence,’ she agreed softly. ‘The innocence of children before they know the world holds danger.’

‘We did not know,’ he said simply. ‘The Maia tried to warn me. But we did not even know what there was to fear, or even what fear was.’

‘No child knows what it is to fear, until they are frightened.’ She touched his face consolingly. ‘Do you want to continue with this?’

‘I was going to ask you the same question.’

There was a pause in the lament of the wind, only the flames fluttered in the hearth like rich, blown fabric.

‘Surely this hurts you more than me?’ Her brows went up in quizzical arch. ‘And I think...you would have made a good father. Maglor said that, and I agree.’

‘What might have been,’ he said hardly. ‘I thought it was my duty to care for all my people. They were my family. All of them. Keep them safe, allow them to grow, flourish, that was my duty and my love, too. And I failed them so completely —‘

‘No,’ she protested. ‘How can you say that? How was it your fault? How was _any_ of it your fault?’

‘I think, had I been there, I would not not have lead them to Valinor, gone into the trap of the Valar.’ He looked down at his hands, clasping hers. ‘My son — or sons — would have been born to freedom. But —‘ He shrugged, ‘perhaps he would have died sooner.’

‘Or not, and his sons would not have taken the Oath,’ she pointed out.

‘Or they would have, for a different reason. Vanimórë would say that every possibility has already happened.’ And perhaps had seen them all, through the Portal. ‘And Fëanor is...’ A small, remembering laugh shook him. ‘ _Fëanor._ ’

Claire’s brows crooked. The wind began again, as if it had simply paused to gather breath before a fresh onslaught; the fire danced, sparks drifted up the chimney.  
‘You know him, don’t you?’

‘In my world, yes.’

‘You haven’t spoken of him to Maglor, have you?’ Her frown deepened. ‘I think to know that Fëanor is alive, albeit in another timeline, and that here he’s dead, inaccessible...it would be an incredibly cruel, maddening thing to dwell on.’

‘I have not,’ he reassured her. ‘And will not. I feel it myself, to a degree. Not as much as Maglor, of course, but that terrible unfairness, the helplessness, that chasm between the dead and the living.’

‘Thank you.’ Some of the stiffness melted out of her body. ‘I didn’t really think you would, but I just...wanted to be sure.’

‘He is still Maglor, and so much like the one I know. I would never hurt him,’ Edenel said. Then: ‘I was not planning to meet any of you, Claire. When I asked Vanimórë let me come here, it was to track down the things of darkness that might be hunting you. It was what we _Ithiledhil_ did after Utumno. We became a byword of terror to the orcs. We were like assassins perhaps, or, what is the word here for certain small military groups—‘

‘Guerrilla fighters?’ Claire suggested.

‘Yes. Thank you,’ he smiled. ‘Even in the great battles we often fought secretly, on the sidelines when we could, so as to be unremarked. But now, having met you both, and considered the risks, I believe we are all stronger together. Maglor is — I am sure you have seen, or something at least — a great deal more perilous than the persona he dons for this world, but Sauron is...who he is.’

‘Yes,’ Claire said seriously, ‘Maglor is dangerous. It’s easier to sense since Summerland, but even before it was there, a current deep beneath the surface. Sometimes like a volcano slumbering, ready to erupt. And I’m _glad_ you’re here, Maglor is glad. It’s something, a touch of family.’

‘I know it is not the same,’ he said. ‘But yes, I do feel the link. I swear I will not wilfully hurt him. And—‘ He hesitated. ‘I do not wish to disgust him, or you, either.’

‘Disgust us?’ she said sharply. ‘How could you?’

‘I fear I will. Art thou sure,’ he fell into the antique speech. ‘that thou wouldst hear the tale of a coward who ran away because he was jealous of his brother and Míriel? And Indis too. Because that is what I did, Claire. For all my words about wanting to protect and nurture my people, I ran away. I think...I _wanted_ something to happen to me, to...take me out of the equation. I felt I was in their way, that I would be put aside anyhow, and Finwë was the other half of my heart. I did not know how to let him go, but I knew I had to. Save for when two people begot children together, no-one had permanent lovers. What we had, Finwë and I, must have seemed an oddity. It could not last. I think everyone knew that but me.’ His voice came harder, the ring of metal on stone. ‘And so, like a coward, I ran away, struck North, toward the very Darkness I had been warned of. Oh, I explained it to myself as reconnoitring, exploring, yes. But I wanted, I think, to disappear. And I did.’

She stared at him. ‘Oh, _Edenel._ ’ She loosed her hands, set them on his shoulders, gave him a slight shake. ‘Please listen to me. Please. You’re not the only person who’s run away from a difficult relationship or situation.’ A faint flush mantled her cheeks. ‘Whatever you were, chieftain, leader, king, you were not immune to making mistakes. No-one is. It’s not cowardly, it’s _human._ ’

‘Human,’ he repeated. ‘I suppose I was, then.’ And, after a moment: ‘Maglor told me that you left your career, your profession because you came to a point where it was making you ill in both mind and body.’

Her blush deepened a little. ‘He said you asked him about me.’

‘I hope you are not offended?’ he asked quickly. ‘You see, this does not happen often. Even in my world, there are very few mortals who have become immortal. And most of them are _Khadakhir_. I admit I was curious.’

She rubbed her arms, a self-comforting movement, and rose from the sofa. ‘I’m not offended. And yes, I did. I put all my energy, all my ambitions into my career, and yes, I had to give it up. Let’s not be overly dramatic, here, it wasn’t killing me, but it was not healthy, either.’ She looked away, as if bringing the past into focus. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Before court appearances I was having panic attacks —‘ She turned back. ‘I felt I couldn’t breathe, as if I would faint, my heart pounding — ‘ She placed a hand against her chest. ‘Wanting to run away, and not able to.’

He had not heard of the term, but knew exactly what she meant. ‘I completely understand. I have experienced that, too.’

‘Of course,’ she said apologetically. ‘Yes, you would have. Well...I starved myself to wear expensive clothes.’ She laughed shortly, scorn directed inward. ‘I lost all my friends. I buried myself in my work. And I was too...proud to admit that it was not what I imagined it would be, was not the right... _fit_ for me. I’d put so much into it.’ She offered him a wry smile. ‘So when I gave it up... No-one understood really. Harrison, but not my parents. I made new friends though, and a new life.’

‘And are still haunted by the old one.’

‘Yes.’ She looked startled. ‘Sometimes. How do you know?’

‘Because we always are.’ He, all the reborn Elves. There was no bliss in forgetfulness. He reached out a hand. ‘Do you want me to continue.’

She sat down again, placed her own hand in his. After a long, searching moment, as if looking within him, to the back of his eyes and all that dwelt there (But she could not know not yet. She would. Soon) she said, ‘Yes,’ firmly.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The soft bat of snow struck the newly glazed windows. The banked fire glowed comfortingly, and Élernil smelled herbs, dried lavender. He tried to sleep but the lonely sound of the wind haunted his dreams, slid like smoke into his rest. Half-asleep, desirous, Finwë turned into him, kissing, drew Élernil’s hand down to his engorged length, indicating his own need. For a time, Élernil lost himself in the fierce communion of sex, the brightness of love, but after, when Finwë slept again, he rose, quietly washed and dressed, and went out into the white-shot darkness.

The wind moaned in the bare-leafed trees, drew a deeper surf-sound from the huge pines. He trod lightly across the snow to check that all the sheep and goats were folded, the fowl shut up for the night. No Elf feared the timber wolves from the highlands; Beleg and many of Nelyar often hunted with them, but they objected to their opportunistic depredations when the cold season closed about them. They left out the entrails, and the animals grown old were killed and given to the wolves and foxes, but the creatures took more when they could. One could not blame them, could even look aside in hard weather. But the tribes came first.

He heard nothing, at first, over the storm. Visibility was poor, but he could still see lights at some of the windows. The Quendi followed no particular sleep pattern and could work for days without rest.

The settlement had grown, yet did not sprawl, following a neat grid pattern that branched out from Finwë and Élernil’s house. The paths were paved against the mud of winter and spring thaw and now, beside dwellings, there were was Míriel’s weaver hall, smithies, breweries, bake-houses, butchers, storehouses. Rúmil had even set up a small teaching school. The lamp in the porch still gleamed; he was doubtless there at his table, thinking, writing.

Further out, past the bolted storehouses, Élernil came to the huts for the sheep and goats, the chicken coops, all tightly closed. The shepherd-huts were locked against the blast. He waited in the bite of the wind for a time, but no dark shapes slunk out of the storm and at last he turned back, finding a respite from the blizzard as he moved behind the weaver’s hall. The gale thrummed about the walls, but inside, he knew, it would be bright, warm. Following a sudden inclination, he reached the door and tapped softly, then opened it and walked in.

There was a workroom for dyeing, plants gathered, dyestuffs developing, cloths soaking in long trays, others hanging to dry. The main weaving room was larger, long windowed, though these were now hidden by drapes. The looms and spinning wheels were silent, but he heard the soft sound of voices that ceased as he knocked again on the door jamb. There was movement, and then Míriel stepped from behind one of the looms. Beside her was Indis. Their hair was tousled, lips rosy bright.

‘Élernil. Is something wrong?’ Míriel asked.  
  
‘Nothing,’ he responded. ‘I thought I heard wolves and was merely patrolling.’ Lady,’ he inclined his head to Indis, who returned it.  
  
‘Well, now thou art here, stay a moment and drink some hot wine with us.’ She moved to the fire, filled a pot with elderberry wine and pushed the crane over the smouldering coals, adding honey and ground spices. Élernil removed his furred cloak, laid it close to the fire.  
  
‘Wolves?’ Indis raised her delicate brows. ‘Ingwë has been troubled with dreams of wolves. Black wolves with one great leader almost white.’ She stepped across to Élernil with that sinuous, almost predatory stride, laid a hand on his arm. ‘He was speaking of a hunt, a search to the north.’  
  
He frowned, misliking that Ingwë had also dreamed of them. _Black, and one leader of icy-gold, yes, almost white and a dreadful intelligence in its red eyes._   
‘Yes, we should call a hunt.’  
  
Míriel sat back, stirring the wine. ‘It is as well thou art here, Élernil. we have something to discuss with thee, Indis and I.’  
  
He looked from one to the other: formidable women whether singly or together.  
‘  
I am at thy service, naturally.’  
  
‘Art thou indeed?’ Indis asked with a throaty chuckle. ‘We would certainly like to think so.’  
  
Míriel poured three cups of wine, offered them. She slid a look at Indis.  
‘There are too many presentiments,’ she murmured. ‘too many dreams.’  
  
Élernil folded himself onto the thick rug. ‘We held conclave,’ he said. He had related what the water-woman advised, that the Quendi leave their homes and go far to the south. ‘I do not wish to leave, though I would have, but what of the women-born, the children? Until they are grown they are less strong, more helpless. If there was any threat...’ The word sounded strange on his tongue. ‘any...darkness...’ He knew what it felt like now, but still could not understand it. Did not desire to.  
  
‘Yes, we held conclave,’ Míriel agreed.  
  
Élernil had ruled that every individual member of the tribe must decide whether or not they should leave, save the young children who did not properly comprehend. (But neither did any of the Quendi).  
  
‘Are we not their chieftains?’ Olwë had asked when the idea was put to him. ‘Surely we must decide for them.’  
  
‘No,’ Élernil disagreed. ‘We do not own them. We must ask them and act on their wishes.’ Finwë had nodded his assent, as had Ingwë and Elwë.  
  
As it was, those who thought they should leave were far outweighed by those who elected to remain. Their lives were growing richer each day; they were absorbed in new skills, the women bearing children. They were peaceful, prosperous: why would they want to uproot themselves for vague warnings and vaguer dreams? They did not doubt the power of dreams, Élernil knew, only the fact that they were unclear. And the warnings of the water-spirit spoke of things so long ago, so ancient, that they could be dismissed (or at least disregarded) as legends.  
  
Anyone who wished to leave might do so, but none had, and the brief flutter of discomfort, the arguments between the opposing sides, had quickly died away.  
Míriel and Indis had been two of those who wished to leave, though not without voicing regret for their decisions. Now they looked at one another for a long moment before Indis said: ‘Míriel has told me of her own dream, Élernil: that thou wouldst give her a child.’  
  
He had, he realised, been expecting this. ‘Well?’  
  
‘And thou hast said thou wilt sire no children.’  
  
‘I fear I will not.’  
  
‘Fear or foresight or the shadows of a dream?’  
  
He looked into his heart. ‘It is the future, I believe, indeed the water-woman said it might be, but my mind cannot encompass it.’  
  
‘Míriel dreams of a son of fire,’ Indis continued. ‘Well, Élernil,’ and her voice was crisp. ‘I too have dreamed: of a son of steel and diamond, and a son of gold.’  
  
‘Sons by me?’ The thought forked into his mind and split it. He could not reconcile it with his inner certainty that he would sire no children. And yet, and yet...He could not deny the yearning in him, the upwelling spring of love, of _hope._ It was as if he could see, for a moment, glimmering like the first blush of dawn, another possibility, another path than the darkness, the fear that lay across his future like a mountain.  
  
‘Sons by thee,’ Míriel concurred. ‘And _such_ sons! Brothers and half-brothers. Their names shall be legend.’ He gazed at her, and her eyes caught the light with a silver flash. _Burning_ , Élernil thought. Fire. Perilous and transcendent.  
  
Míriel whispered: ‘Give us thy fire, Élernil.’  
  
And then, the axe that cleaved down, the insurmountable darkness filled with a horror that ate his bones to the marrow, sucked him hollow. A spike of pain ripped through him, burst through his stomach, rose to explode in his skull. He was alone; there was fire, not the terrible, beautiful radiance he had seen reflected in Míriel’s eyes, but redblack. And Finwë was not there, not there...  
  
Hands touched his face. He jerked away, (all touch was pain) felt a slap land on his cheek.  
‘Élernil!’ A woman’s voice, authoritative, sharp. ‘Élernil!’  
  
He blinked. Two pairs of eyes were staring into his, silver and winter-blue. Cold metal pressed against his lips. He smelled the fumes wine, hot, fragrant with spices, and gulped. The world tilted back into normality. He heard, under the moan of the wind, his own harsh, laboured breathing.  
  
‘I felt that,’ Indis said flatly. ‘We thought that thou didst withhold because of Finwë.’ She fetched a deep, shaken breath. ‘I still think that is true. But there is more. A wall across the world.’ Her fingers stroked back his hair.  
  
‘Yes,’ Míriel said, her mellow voice gone stark. ‘But what is it? _What is it_?’  
  
‘It is the Dark God.’ Élernil blinked tears of lingering pain from his eyes. ‘What else could it be?’  
  
‘But why would he want thee?’ Indis demanded.  
  
‘I do not know.’ He bowed his head into his hands, spoke through their shelter. He could not _think_ , did not dare lest it destroy all control, send him fleeing into the night. He reached into the core of himself, took two centring breaths.  
‘Of course I do not wish to be separated from my brother.’ He tried to speak steadily. ‘He is the star within my heart. We woke together. But even if I could give thee children, how could I protect my people if I were a sire? My focus would be too narrow.’  
  
‘Finwë desires children,’ Míriel told him. ‘And then he will leave thee, Élernil and there will be others in his heart beside thee. I do not say this to be cruel, only to make thee see.’  
  
‘I care not if he loves others,’ Élernil replied truthfully, although his heart swooped back into sickness at the thought of Finwë abandoning him for a family. He shook himself mentally. Selfishness! If Finwë desired children it was not for Élernil to stand in his way. And had he not known, from the way Finwë spoke of children, that he desired to be a mate, a father? He lifted his head. ‘Is there one of us who does not? But leave my brother aside for the moment. This Darkness is nothing to do with him. He would no more stand in my way than I would in his. I cannot see any future. And how could I sire children if I could not also raise them? How could any man do that?’  
  
The women exchanged another of their long, silent glances. The wind surged, and Élernil listened, but no wolf bayed down the wind.  
  
‘Élernil, we can hope and pray to the One that this darkness is only a ‘maybe’ not foresight,’ Indis said firmly. ‘But if it is, wouldst thou not wish to know thou hadst left sons of thy seed? Dost thou not think a woman could not raise them, that all the tribe would not?’  
  
He had not thought of that. He forced himself back into that dark place, where he could not reach even Finwë and wondered, with a resurgence of pain keen as the point of a dagger, if the knowledge that he had begat children who were safe, growing strong, would mean something, would provide some measure of comfort. But was that, too, selfish? And try as he might he could not envisage any child of his blood. There was just a blankness, a gap into nothing.

Míriel leaned toward him, the light flowing red and gold over the curves of her breasts as she slipped out of her gown. All of her was silvery. Indis was cloaked in hair like winter sunlight over skin soft as cream. He knew what they wanted, and there was something predatory in the way they crawled toward him over the rugs, a need for fulfilment, not, he thought, for him, but for the realisation of their dreams.  
  
‘Give us thy fire, Élernil,’ Míriel repeated, and Indis echoed her. ‘Thy fire.’  
  
They would take what they wanted. Had he not spoken of his visions they might have waited, but they, too, had felt the Darkness and if he were to vanish away, be eaten by it, their dreams of sons would die. Élernil did not want that, but he knew he had no choice in the matter, and neither did they; there was something stronger than all of them, stronger than any dream, any hope, and far more powerful. And it was merciless.  
  
And yet, even knowing that, feeling it with all his heart and soul, it would have taken a stronger and colder man than he was to refuse them.  
  
‘Take it then,’ he said.  
  
 _But it is not me,_ he thought, as a revelation. _Not me, but Finwë._  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The wind boomed round the Manse and he thought of the Fell-wolves baying in the North. Black as the pits of Utumno, save the huge white leader with its eyes of flame.

‘It’s nothing, Edenel,’ Claire said gently.

 _Yet._ He touched his face, realising what had bothered him since Aelios arrived at his cottage in St. Andrews, a flaming meteor bleeding ichor, singeing the grass, Claire and Maglor wrapped in vast, burning wings. This was no longer a solitary mission, a hunting of the dark, it was war, and since the most ancient times no _Ithiledhil_ had gone to war without their battle markings. He felt unfinished, oddly naked.  
Abruptly, he rose, crossed to the small writing table, drew a sheaf of notepaper toward him and began to sketch.

‘Edenel?’ Claire asked curiously.  
  
‘I wonder,’ he said, turning to her, searching her puzzled face. ‘There is a tradition among the _Ithiledhil_. We began it after leaving Utumno and the wood-Elves copied it. When we go to war, we draw battle markings upon our faces, which do not fade until the war is over. They also have another purpose: Our skin is so pale, and orcs and Fell-wolves are keen-sighted. The markings dim the pallor of our flesh so that we may move better unseen and in ambush.’ Claire was staring at him, unspeaking. ‘This is a war, undercover, at the moment, secret, yet a war nevertheless and I am not operating alone any longer.’ He handed the finished sketch to her: The stylised fighting eagle, beak dipping between the brows like an arrow-bolt, wings sweeping up above them, talons clawing round beneath the cheekbones. ‘Can you draw?’ he asked her.  
  
She looked from the sketch back up to his face. ‘You want me to draw this design on you?’ she asked as if not sure she had heard him correctly.  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
But surely Maglor would be the proper person?’  
  
‘The Noldor have no such tradition,’ he replied. ‘And...we did not use mirrors, Claire. The markings were always drawn on the eve of battle by a very close, very trusted companion. I hope Maglor knows he is that, and more, and I would like to call you one, also.’  
  
Her face changed, softening, grey eyes going wide. She said, huskily. ‘Well, then...I...I would be honoured. I can’t draw as such, I mean I am no artist, but I do practice calligraphy, I have done since I was at school.’  
  
‘Thank you,’ he said sombrely. ‘It would seem to strange to embark on a war without them.’ He searched through the collection of pens, drew one out. ‘It does not really matter what you use to draw it with. The marks will remain until the battle is over. And they can only been seen when I am not using glamour, so don’t worry.’  
  
‘A _Sharpie_?’ she exclaimed, and pressed a hand to her mouth to cover laughter. ‘I think not. We can do better than that.’ She went quickly to the door, opened it then turned back. ‘But are you sure you want me to do this?’  
  
‘I do,’ he said emphatically, smiling.  
  
She returned the smile. ‘Just wait a moment then.’ And she slipped quickly out of the room.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. ~ The Night of the Wolf ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mention of miscarriage

  
  
  


 

**~ The Night of the Wolf ~**

 

 

 

 

~ The old house creaked under the storm. Edenel went to the window, drew the drapes back a little. He was careful to stand out of direct view, though he sensed nothing out there in the night save the sorrowing ghost in the graveyard, the older spirits of the yew tree, and so-called sacred spring.

Snow drove past, drifting on the outside sill, and the wind soughed mournfully through the branches of the great tree. It spoke of an empty land, of darkness and night. The cold of the North. He let the curtain drop back into place as the door opened and Claire returned, carrying a box under one arm.

Was he wrong, he thought, to draw her into the depths of his memories, the darkness? Not wrong in his intent, but to do it _this_ way? He could skim over the details — indeed he meant to do so — but doubted it would change anything or mitigate the horror; Claire could see deeper than words.

She set the box on the writing desk. It was covered with tooled red leather, decorated with old-gold and, when she opened it, Edenel saw it was lined with velvet. A set of writing implements nestled within: brushes, nibbed pens, creamy paper that looked soft as vellum. Heavy, jewel-coloured bottles of ink were topped with brass. Every item was clearly expensive; the whole was both useful and ornamental.

‘Maglor bought it for me in Venice,’ she said simply, head bent over it. ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it? Almost too lovely to use. I’ve not had time up until now.’ She withdrew a finely tapered brush and a bottle of black ink, then glanced around, repositioned the chair. ‘I might need more light for this.’ She ran the dry brush through her fingers, a gesture of testing.

Edenel flicked on the nearby lamp, and the rosy light spread through the room. He sat down, raising his head, long hair already bound and coiled back away from his face.

Claire was scanning his sketch again. She set it down, unstoppered the ink and carefully followed his strokes with the brush, practicing. Her hand was deft, slow at first, but sure.  
‘It’s been quite a while,’ she said. ‘And I never used brushes, but this one is very firm. You’re quite sure?’

He nodded. ‘It is not really possible to make a mistake.’

‘Alright,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s reassuring.’

He felt the first cool touch on his skin and closed his eyes. The air in the room seemed to...deepen and then open up. He felt, through the sweeping bristles, through the handle of the brush, the pulsing rush of Claire’s blood driven by the beat of her heart.

He remembered the first time these markings had been painted on: Clouds of war still hung over the north, where lights and thunder had rolled, where he had seen winged gods descend from the tearing sky, and every one of them had felt Melkor’s wrath and fear. For days, the earth trembled; violent storms swept across the land bringing stinging hail on wild, capricious winds.

Melkor had summoned them back, his White Slayers, his call like a dagger in the heart, like poison in a wound, but he did not know that they had broken from him at the moment of their changing, did not truly know what they were, these white half-demons. As one, they denied him, though they screamed in their agony, held one another down on the cold earth, blood streaming from eyes and nose.

It was there, in a sheltered dell, under leaves just opening, that they realised their freedom, and for a time, they stayed in that place, unable to move on.  
It was beautiful to eyes accustomed to Utumno: a little stream running into a pool, sheltering trees, the first wildflowers starring the greensward, and was far enough South, that not all birds and beasts had fled, so food was plentiful. The sound of the creek could almost soothe one when night fell. Almost. Élernil did not know if any of them would ever sleep peacefully again. Terrified and shocked, unable to truly accept how the world had changed, that they were free, they sat under a moonless sky where ragged clouds blew aside to show the stars.

They made vows, then, to themselves and one another: A vow to fight the Dark, a promise to kill any of the monsters that might have escaped Utumno, those whom had once been their kin. The paralysing horror and sickness had long been replaced by a hatred that ran cold as iron in their veins. They had slaughtered the foul creatures in the pits; they would kill them wherever they encountered them. Such things were an abomination; they could not be permitted to exist.

_And — they were us. They were once us._

‘What do we do, Élernil?’ Amathon asked him, when the Dark God’s iron command had faded from their minds. It ran in the deeps of the the world under their feet, in the memory of their blood but he himself was gone, they did not know where. ‘Where shall we go?’ There was a yearning in his eyes, those white eyes, for kin and _home_ , and a shame that scorched their bones and made such a dream impossible. They were not Quendi anymore.

‘I will not carry that name,’ he responded, rising to his feet. ‘I am no longer Élernil. ’ He had lost his name, the man that bore it, in the red-shot dark somewhere between agony and the dissolution of his soul. His hands clenched. (And, in the Manse, his hands clenched). ‘And what do we do? We fight, We kill _them_. We kill them.’

A great eagle sailed above the trees, wings motionless against the blue, pinions stretched to catch the air currents rising from the warming land. Its thin cry came down the wind. Deliberately, the one who was not Élernil unlocked his fingers, drew his nails down his cheeks so that the blood ran. But it was not enough. He would heal, he knew he would heal. He had done so in Utumno over and over to emerge perfect.

‘We mark ourselves,’ he said. ‘each time we go to war, and those marks will not fade until war is done or we are dead.’ He turned to Culina, whose hair had once been rose-touched gold and who, once, had been of Ingwë’s tribe. Her skills were the equal to Míriel’s save that she practised the art of scrimshaw, beautiful etchings upon ivory. Her work was prized by Ingwë, Elwë, Olwë and Élernil himself. One long-ago, dreamlike summer night, they had been lovers.

He had been present when she became _other_ , her body finally (finally) rejecting the monster growing in it, got on her by one of the Corrupted. In the agony of the expulsion, the smell of blood heavy as hot copper, white fire had blasted around her, bleaching hair and eyes to this strange whiteness.

She died.  
She lived.

Despite the failure of the experiment, Mairon had seemed more interested than annoyed. She had been borne away, the fourth among the captives to become _other_ , to recover, to be kept apart. After, in the killing pits, Culina sliced the throats of the Corrupted with a face serene as the rising moon.  
‘Canst thou make us ink?’ he asked.

She nodded mute now, as she had been ever since her cries echoed from black stone.

She took the potent black drink they had been given in Utumno, a hot, maddening brew, and let it sour, grinding oak galls together, searching for feathers. It was she who drew his markings: the eagle-wings arching up over his brows, the beak stabbing down between, talons bracketing his cheeks. That first time, she painted all their faces and last, Élernil drew the markings on her.  
  
He took his new name then, accepting it from Amathon like a gift: Edenel. He could not have named himself, he felt the wrongness of what he was on his tongue like the bitter aftertaste of metal. And then he named them, his people now, born of of the horror of Utumno and white flame, freed under a broken, moonless sky. The _Ithiledhil_ , the folk of the Black Moon.  
  
  
  
‘It’s done,’ Claire whispered. ‘It’s done.’ She swallowed. Her pupils had widened to drink the lamplight, eyes almost black in a pale face. ‘You look...is it alright?’  
  
‘I am sure it is.’ His voice came a little hoarse.  
  
‘Do you want to see?’ she asked.  
  
Reluctantly, he moved before the mirror, saw the flowing, sharp lines that spoke of war, of death. They accentuated the architecture of his face, the high cheeks, the up-tilt of his brows, turning his face into that of a predator. Which was exactly what the _Ithiledhil_ had become. Behind him, Claire’s reflection was sombre.  
  
‘You felt it.’ He met her eyes in the glass.  
  
‘Yes. It was like...like two threads blending into one, or two streams of blood flowing together into one vein. And I _saw_ things, felt them.’  
  
He drew a breath. ‘It took me back, to that first time. Claire, please be sure of this. Not that I do not think you strong enough in mind, but it is not a thing _anyone_ should have to experience. And there are certain aspects...you saw—?’  
  
‘I saw the woman, yes.’ Her eyes closed briefly. ‘I see, yes. You think another woman should not see such things.’  
  
‘Not that. Hells, Claire, I know how strong women are, and how strong _you_ are. I think _no-one_ should see it.’  
  
‘And I think it should be seen,’ she returned. ‘And never be forgotten — by anyone. Atrocities should never be forgotten and they are, at least by Mortals, too easily. Edenel, this is my choice, but is it yours?’  
  
‘Thou art not Mortal any more,’ he pointed out gently. ‘And yes, it is my choice, too. We will go through it together.’  
  
‘I must rinse this brush.’ Suddenly practical. ‘And then, we’ll continue.’  
  
‘Would you like some whiskey?’  
  
‘Perhaps so.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, I think I would.’  
  
_It is drawing thee in, Claire, deeper every moment, from the first time thou didst hear Maglor playing, it has been inescapable, inevitable. And that is something I must accept too, as thou hast done._  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Dawn came late and grudgingly, forcing its way through the storm, turning the world white under a leaden sky. When Élernil returned to their home, Finwë still slept. He fed the fires, lit lamps, cut bread and cold meat, heated wine. He took the tray into the bedchamber. In his nest of rich black hair, Finwë stirred and woke, smiling.

‘My thanks.’ He lifted himself on one arm. ‘Thou wert gone long. Thy place is cold.’ He lifted the wine to his lips and drank.

‘I wanted to ensure all was well.’ He said nothing about Míriel or Indis. It was not customary for them to speak of lovers; they understood that sometimes there were others. No more need be said.

Élernil felt no regret for the night just past, save that he could not give the two women what they wanted. Both were lovely and, above and beyond that, he respected them. He believed, however, that when their wombs did not quicken, any respect they might have had harboured for he himself would wither like their hopes; they would consider him less than a man.

‘I told thee it was only the wind.’ Over the rim of the cup, the dark, dark eyes met his. ‘I wish I could convince thee.’

‘I saw no wolves,’ Élernil agreed, smiling, as Finwë arched a brow then applied himself to his meal.

 

 

A messenger from Ingwë came later that day to arrange for a hunt northward. They left the next dawn.

The snow had ceased, the wind died, and a cold, brilliant sun blazed the snow crystal and gold.

They travelled light, a small group including Ingwë, Elwë, Beleg, Mablung, Amathon and Arassel, Élernil’s two closest companions; a small group skimming the snow, warm breaths pluming in the icy air. The sky above the white Orocarni arched a dark, steely blue.

Wolves they saw, but grey ones who trailed them because they shared their kills and at night came close to the warmth of the fires. Beleg and Mablung indeed slept close to the great, rangy creatures, arms slung across their deep ruffs.  
Two days later, the wolves melted away quite suddenly. Beleg, silver hair glinting in the sun, trotted up to Elwë, and spoke to him in a low voice, then crossed to Ingwë and Élernil.  
‘They fear something,’ he said grimly. ‘They think we should turn back.’

‘Which is why we should go on,’ Élernil returned. ‘Did they indicate what they feared, Beleg?’

The archer’s eyes were as clear as well-water as they met his. He reached back to touch one of the arrow-fletching as if to reassure himself.  
Wolves did not speak as the Quendi did; they used impressions, mind-images. Some Elves were more skilled at understanding them than others, Elwë and Olwë’s folk were more skilled than any.

‘Not-kin,’ Beleg said with a small shrug. ‘Creatures who look like them, but far larger, and _not_ them. Not-kin.’

Élernil met Ingwë’s grave eyes. ‘Black wolves.’

‘And one leader. White and gold like a cold sun.’

‘They have seen them,’ Beleg nodded. ‘Yes.’

The group looked north. The early sun poured down upon the distant mountains. The land lay white, immaculate, still under the snow.

They continued on, and the land grew emptier, sleeping in the cold season. Sometimes an eagle or raven drifted overhead, or crows followed them, scratching at the leavings from their camp fires, flicking through the trees. They rested, when they rested at all, briefly.

 

 

As Beleg had a preference for his great bow, Élernil’s weapon of choice was his knives. As the setting sun spread orange-gold fingers through the trees he drew them from their sheaths, turned them slowly in his hands.  
They were heavy, beautiful, lethal, the top of each blade holding small notches, running straight before curving slightly down to the tip; the underside swept back out, then dipped inward, smooth as a woman’s legs, toward the leather wrapped handle. A pattern like rippling water lay frozen forever in the metal, swirling across the storm-grey surface, a riddle of death etched in some unknown tongue of steel. Both point and edge maintained an impeccable sharpness, could cut through a thread of flax with a whisper.

He thought, as he replaced them: _It will be tonight._

The last light faded in a wash of cinder red and cold green, and Élernil watched the starfield illuminate the night.

_Fire in thine eyes._

_Give me thy fire, Élernil._

He flung an arm over his eyes, thought back to his first vision, woken to this world, of a god striding through the stars, hair adorned with them as with gems. It was his only intimation of the One, of a power far beyond the world, and he wished that the Creator might be someone whom he could question, not remote and inscrutable and invisible. He was beginning to feel the paucity of his understanding, and sought for answers. But there was no-one to ask.

He could not _understand_ what motives might move the Dark God in the North. As he had said to the water-woman, he did not comprehend what she named war, or why the Dark — or any other god — would desire rule of the Earth. He wished he could return to those dew-fresh days when everything was simple, a wonder and a delight, but the shadows fell long and black across his heart now, and there was cold dread in his bones.

 

 

But, when he saw the wolves that were not wolves, he understood that this growing away from the first wide-eyes of innocence was necessary, opening the senses to danger. There was an inevitability to it, like the turning of the seasons, the way wood gives itself up to fire and then to ash. Nothing was immune to change.

They smelled them before they saw them: a reek of carrion, of creatures that fed on hot blood, and an acrid taint underlying it, bitter and metallic as the run-off from a forge.

The night lay silent under the half-moon. There was little wind. Their first hint was the uneasy flutter of roosting birds in the tall pines, then the sound of heavy paws on crisp snow.

Caution had dictated they light no fires, not this night or the previous one, yet the creatures had found them nevertheless; by smell, Élernil guessed. He was on his feet, knives out, body falling into readiness, as their distant shapes took on substance and form.

Someone cursed. They were huge. Their shoulders would have stood as high as Élernil’s own. Wolf-like they were, but heavier, more burly, ruffs thick as the mane of a mountain lions. Their eyes shone red as embers in a dying fire.

And, as his dream and Ingwë’s, they were black as night-shadow at the back of a cave, save for their leader whose whiteness was gilded with icy gold.

Aurochs were dangerous when hunted, but no Quendi had ever been attacked by anyone or anything. These creatures, Élernil knew, wanted to _kill._ The violence they emanated, their intent was appalling.

They speeded up, flowing across the white land, running low to the ground. The leader, strangely, slowed, held back, as if content to watch the unfolding battle.

Save for when caught in the grip of dream, it was the first time Élernil had ever felt paralysing fear. It took the strength from his limbs, the heat from his blood, dried his mouth to ash. A desire came on him to turn away, to run, lose himself in the dark.  
  
And then...

The feeling rose from the pit of his stomach, burst through him in an explosion, like oil thrown on a slumbering fire. It flashed through his veins, lifted the hair on his scalp, crackled like lightning. He found himself remembering his awakening; it was like this, the knowledge that woke in his mind, _like this_ , the skill burning through his body, priming his muscles, showing him what he must now do: kill or be killed. It was that simple.

He waited coolly as the beast filled his world: jaw wide, fangs a fence of ivory through a fog of heated breath. The charnel-reek was heavy in his nostrils; the smell of offal, of death. It leapt, and its body blanked out the stars. It would come down on him, biting at his throat, disemboweling with those huge claws...

His mind, his whole body sang with an awareness keener than the edge of his blades. Time ran down, unfurled slow as the slide of honey and he moved with it, stressless, calm, folding his knees to duck under the pouring leap of the monster, the knife in his left hand driving up, using his own strength and the motion of the wolf’s jump to tear through hide and sinew, withdrawing it with a red-flower spatter on the snow. Turning on the balls of his feet, he watched it plunge, scrambling, spilling intestines.

He knew it was dying, heard, as if from far away, the yelping din of its howl. Instinctively, he spun, threw his unblooded dagger right-handed. It sank deep into the eye of another beast. Its head snapped up (still so slow, everything so very slow), claws spraying through the snow crust as it slid, crumpling. He walked forward, gripped the hilt of his knife and drew it forth.

Hot breath struck his cheek. He turned.

Eyes of red-gold stared down into his. The pale wolf’s shoulders overtopped him, lips skinning away from its teeth. Its growl was a low thread of thunder. Moonlight sparked gold from its fur.

Élernil could not look away from those eyes, all his fear caught in an iron fist under his breastbone. No beast’s eyes held such light, such cold intelligence. It regarded him as he might some strange and interesting animal never before encountered.

The preternatural stillness broke like ice shattering into the snarling tangle of battle, shouts, cries, howls, the hot stink of blood, the wolf’s breath, like fire and iron. It shoved its snout close, sniffed as if drawing in his scent, marking him in memory.

_Starflame._

Then, with a snap and hissing snarl it was gone, leaping away, almost knocking Élernil from his feet. He saw the great arrow protruding from its side, the grey goose feather of the fletching, quivering.

 _Beleg_.

Another arrow sang from the great bow. This time, the pale wolf almost lazily turned its head and caught the shaft, splintering it with great teeth. Then it loped away, blood splotching the snow. Four of the black wolves followed it. Yet, unlike any animal fleeing from pain or fear, it turned looked back, and Élernil knew that fire-red glare held an absolute promise of retribution.

 

 

Seven of the wolves lay dead or dying, great black humps against the blooded whiteness. The crisp air smelled of blood and excrement.

‘My thanks, Beleg,’ Élernil said, plunging his daggers into the snow to clean them, wiping them on the fur of the nearest fallen beast.

‘Thou art welcome.’ A small smile that flickered into seriousness. ‘That pale wolf...’

‘None of them are wolves,’ Ingwë said. ‘And that one least of all. They are fell creatures, monsters out of the northern dark.’

‘Yes,’ Elwë agreed. ‘Fell-wolves.’

‘We should follow them.’ Élernil could not speak of the word that had burned fierily into his mind. _Starflame._ It was absurd, impossible, a fancy of his own frozen, terrified mind. (But the voice had not been his own, nor any he had ever heard; it was deep, even melodious, fire-and-metal — and colder than the bitterest night).  
‘To see where they lair,’ he continued. ‘They have left a trail.’ His heart curled up and shrank from the thought, but it must be done. ‘I will go.’

‘Élernil, not thou,’ Beleg protested, his calm voice coming suddenly hard as a slap. ‘That pale monster, I _saw_ it.’ He turned to the others. ‘Didst thou not? It came close to him, pushed its face into his. It wanted thee, Élernil. And it caught my arrow. Ingwë is right, it is no natural creature.’

‘Then might I not draw it out again?’

‘No,’ Ingwë ruled. ‘It is enough. I agree with Beleg. The more I consider this the less I like it. We know they are going north. We should head back now, hold Conclave and warn our people.’

Elwë concurred. ‘Yes, we must return immediately. This is a new thing and a perilous one.’

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The snows melted then, on the very verge of the stirring, when the sun rose higher and warmer each day and the buds swelled, and the waters ran high, a black wind came down from the north trailing an icy white cloak.  
It was not unexpected; they had smelled the approach of this late cold, and were prepared, but it was rare snows came this late.

By that time, from Míriel’s silence, her puzzled, concerned glances, and Indis’ absence from the Tatya, (including Míriel) Élernil knew that neither of them had kindled, neither were bearing his child. He had known they would not and yet, had they done so it would have been a proof of hope, that an inescapable fate could be defied.

He did not imagine that either woman had mentioned his inadequacy to Finwë, but at that time, between the first snow and the last, his twin underwent a change. He spent more time away from their house, and when he returned, might be strangely passionate, or would hardly speak. At whiles he stared at Élernil while saying nothing, and he was beginning to bar his mind; no longer did their thoughts slip easily in and out of the other’s, natural as one stream joining another.  
But Élernil had done the same thing on his return from the weaver’s halls, envisaging a solid white-marble barrier between himself and Finwë. It was a thing they had all learned they could do for some mental privacy.

Élernil was almost certain, though Finwë had never confided in him, that his brother was more deeply interested in Míriel than in any of his casual lovers. He never spoke of her, and yet Élernil had seen them walking together, knew Finwë visited her house and halls. His silence was, therefore, eloquent.  
It had begun not long after that night he himself would not speak of, and he came to the conclusion that Finwë must be aware. Although he had bathed himself, perhaps some of the women’s perfume had lingered in his hair.

And it would be so perfect, if Míriel’s dream was realised in Finwë— were they not twins? Perhaps her foresight had simply confused the two of them, although she had seemed (and Indis too) so certain.

He said nothing, but watched the discontent burgeon in his brother like the swelling leaf-buds. It showed itself in flashes of anger, in contrite apologies, in a back turned, a jaw set and a sudden, startling hunger that had him arching and crying out under Élernil, pleading with him for more. Sometimes, though more rarely, he wanted Élernil under him and took him with a violence that was new. Élernil found that exciting; he had always desired something of the wild in sex. For a time, he found hope in these unions until, one day, coming in with a mist of rain, he heard Finwë and Míriel. In their house. In their bedchamber. For a moment, he stood still; it was impossible to misconstrue the sounds from that closed room. Then, the blood, beating into his face, he left as quietly as he had come.

 

 

In those latter years, he taken some of the now-grown firstborn under his wing, mentoring them, now he spent more time with them, encouraging their skills. Amathon and Arassel, his first-followers and companions were always at his side, but, in that time, he grew closer to others: Ára, Lóme, Súre, Nasse, young, strong, intelligent. At whiles, Elves from the other tribes joined him, while some Tatya were fostered for a time with the Minyar and the Nelyar. Perhaps (he would not deceive himself) they were surrogates for the children he would never sire, but he valued them for themselves and they alleviated his loneliness a little. He would never have sought them out but they, like Amathon and Arassel, sought him.

‘Thy brother has his skills, and thou hast thine own,’ Amathon told him once. ‘But it is _thee_ whom people follow, Élernil.’

 

 

Now it was Élernil who spent much time away from the house and when he was there, Finwë often was absent. Neither of them shirked their duties, but found ways to attend to them away from their shared home, in the council hall or in the various workshops where the young Elves honed their talents.

Without a word being exchanged, he and his brother were drifting apart. Finwë wanted more than Élernil could ever give him, and Élernil had vowed to himself he would never stand in his twin’s way. But Finwë, out of compunction or doubt or some other complicated emotion, said nothing. And that was also unfair on Míriel. But perhaps they were waiting until she got with child before they made an announcement before the tribe?

As yet there was none. But it could not, Élernil thought, be long. He did not know what he would do, (vows notwithstanding) when the two of them stood up before the gathering. It would be the end of what he and his brother had had, something so beautiful he had never foreseen an end to it Yet had it not already ended? The fire was dead save for a few pockets of heat in the ash.

He felt as if he stood between them, especially later that night when the musty scent of snow came down on the North wind and Finwë returned to the house. He said nothing, but drew Élernil into a hot, furious kiss that ended only when Élernil took him — over and over, wanting him, wanting to claim him, and knowing, at the end, when both of them were spent, that his brother was already gone. Míriel’s scent clung to him and spurred Élernil to acts of savage passion he had never visited on Finwë before. And Finwë took them and begged for more, screaming, as the wind screamed, Élernil’s name with love and with hate and with need.

He stood in the way, he knew, as he disengaged himself from Finwë’s sleeping body. There _were_ aspects of him his brother needed, but how could it continue like this? When Finwë was mated and had children, would he still then come to Élernil for this?

_He is using me because I am here to use. And while I am here, I will never refuse him. If I was not..._

He could still smell the flowery fragrance Míriel used on Finwë’s warm flesh. Hating himself, he dipped into his twin’s mind and found the thought there, floating close to the surface: _If only thou wert gone._

His heart curled away from the pain like a leaf from fire.  
He blamed neither of them, but for all the pleasure this new, frantic and heady sex gave him, Élernil would not be _used_. His pride rose up, scalding, revolting against the thought.

He bathed, changed, and packed a few supplies. He told no-one he was going, not Finwë, not Amathon or Arassel. There was no need; they could track him if they wished, but it was not the first time he had gone alone into the wilds lands.  
He meant to be away at least until the Longest Night. That would surely be enough time.

He took the kisses, rolled them into memory, held them in the palm of his hands and drank them. He sewed up the love that had once burned like fire between them, tucked it against his heart.  
In the drear half light of the snowy dawn, he left his house, his tribe, and struck North.

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	5. ~ Underworld ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape.

  
  
  
  


**~ Underworld ~**

 

 

~ Three days after Élernil’s departure, the wind backed, turned, and blew warmth up from the South. The snow melted until it lay under the trees in tattered borders of lace, and the sun kissed his uncovered head. The smell of growing things was sharp and wild and green.

Anger and hurt drove him onward at a brisk pace, sometimes running, only slowing to drink from the streams or to eat a little dried meat and fruit. The game would be winter-skinny as yet, and there was no need to hunt until his supplies ran low.

Finwë’s memory walked with him, laughed with him, ran, black hair lilting as they raced the wind, lay on his cloak, gazing up at the sky, hand entwined with his. But in memory only. He would never do so again. Élernil had been a fool, but they were the only pair who awakened together; he had not been able to imagine them parting. The difference between them, the great divide, was that Finwë could.

He was not lonely, save for his twin, but could not deny that he was touched and even relieved when Amathon and Arassel caught up with him. The wind had brought him their scent, the metal of their weapons, leather, a spicy musk of fragrance from their hair. Not Finwë; he had not expected it. But hoped it, yes. One could not slay hope so easily.

He climbed to a rocky hillock and lay flat on his stomach, watching them approach with a faint smile. They were trying so hard to look nonchalant. He rose, and leaped down to land behind them as they passed.

‘Well?’

They spun, a joy that surprised him leaping into their eyes and embraced him. The touch brought tears to his eyes that he wrestled with.

‘Thou didst not say no-one was to come after thee,’ Amathon excused himself, but a smile hovered beside his full mouth, teasing. Of the two, he was the most likely to try to lighten a situation through jest. ‘And we have bought emberwine. Shall we camp?’

 

 

They did camp, in the lee of the hillock, and lit a small fire. Arassel had filched a side of salt beef from the storerooms, evincing no shame at the theft. With that, and dried plums from the autumn harvest, they made a good meal, and after relaxed over the strong, fiery caress of the emberwine.

‘Where art thou going?’ Arassel asked quietly.

Élernil looked into the dying flames. ‘North,’ he said. ‘I thought I might see if I could find where those Fell-wolves came from.’

‘Is this not a matter for a large force?’ Amathon shifted, turned his beautiful head. ‘Dear Élernil. We know why thou art here.’

His face felt stiff. ‘Yes? Why am I here?’  
  
‘If he turns from thee, he is not worthy of thy grief,’ Arassel said  
  
With a flash of anger, Élernil snapped: ‘I am the one turning!’  
  
‘We are not fools,’ Amathon said. ‘He dangles thee on a string while he waits for Míriel to get with child. It is unfair on the both of thee!’  
  
Since he had thought the same himself, Élernil could hardly dispute, but he said: ‘I understand him. It is a...strange situation for us. He desires children, a mate. I wish to serve all my people to the best of my ability.’  
  
‘Finwë wants _everything_ ,’ Amathon snapped. ‘And thou art to fine to be _used._ ’  
  
Arassel laid a hand on his friend’s arm, said in his calm, considered way: ‘If thou wert to leave, many would come with thee.’  
  
‘I had thought on it,’ Élernil admitted. ‘Going west perhaps, or south, but to uproot so many whom are settled—‘  
  
‘At least half would follow thee. At least.’  
  
‘We have listened,’ Amathon said, ‘and perhaps those with young children would not wish to leave, but many others would.’  
  
Élernil tossed a pine-cone into the drowsing fire. It burned up with crack and spatter of sparks. ‘Very well. I will consider what thou hast said. But I will not return yet. I wish to give my brother enough time to resolve matters. Some space. And if I can find traces of these Fell-wolves, it will be something to report back.’  
  
‘We are with thee, Élernil,’ Arassel told him in his quiet voice. ‘We will stay with thee until then.’  
  
He smiled at them. ‘I thank thee.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

The land grew steeper, stone cracked through its crust of thin earth, and wooded hills rose dark and green, tall pines sighing under the constant press of the warm breeze. One morning, the clouds melted back from blue lakes of sky and gave them their first true sight of the mountains.

They were much closer than Élernil had imagined they would be, but that, he thought was because of their size. They were vast, higher than the Orocarni, an ancient ridged spine thrown across the North of the world. Snow lay half way down their iron-black flanks, defying the green wave of spring that would break upon them in vain. Beyond lay the region of Everlasting Cold.

‘If those Fell-wolves dwell yonder, we will never discover their lair,’ Amathon said after a long silence.

‘No,’ Élernil agreed softly. And they did lair in those mountains, somewhere, he was sure; he felt it in the prickle of blood at his fingertips. ‘Nevertheless, we will go on for a little time.’ He raised a brow at his companions who agreed, though Arassel said slowly: ‘These lands, do they not feel strangely empty? Oh, not of bird and beast, but the spirits of the place.’

‘Yes, they are.’ Élernil still gazed ahead at the towering peaks. ‘She said, the water-woman, that the Dark God as well as the Gods from Outside, took her kind as slaves. I suspect that is what has happened here.’

‘Then those Fell-wolves — Perhaps they are such spirits, or were once?’

Élernil flinched within, imagining those spirits of wood, water and air bound to a violent existence, chained within unnatural bodies. ‘I fear it may be so.’ His hands fell to the hilts of his daggers. ‘And yet they bleed and die as any creature.’

Far to the North-West the mountains clenched into a bony knot. Though they could not see it from here, the water-woman had spoken of another line of peaks that lay far toward the setting Sun. Her folk told that they had been raised in anger by the titan mind and hands of the Dark God, and were wild and dark. At the limit of their northern reach, they rammed like a fist into the Iron Mountains.

Dreams came out of the ground that night like silken arms, drawing him down into the rich darkness, the melt of the night around him as he lay beside Finwë, their limbs gone slack with peace in an untroubled world lit by starlight.

_Finwë turned his head, smiled — and the skin peeled away from his skull like red mist, leaving bloody bone and grinning teeth that clashed, mocking. Then Finwë pushed Élernil down, forcing his legs apart. His bony arm shoved hard, and Élernil screamed..._

He came up into the world, dragging in breath. The air was cool, hazy with pre-dawn light. Two bodies — Amathon and Arassel — lay as if dead or insensate, black hair splayed about them on the grass. Raising his eyes, Élernil looked into the eyes of — _a wolf_ — _a man._..

... A man. Or male in shape, like one of the Quendi. White gold hair was drawn back from his face, spilling down past black and crimson robes as fine as anything Míriel might have woven. He was shod in leather boots and his long fingers were ringed with gold.

His face was luminous; the skin moulded frost-white over sharp cheekbones, a slim, straight nose and broad brow. His lips were firm, full, tilted a little in a smile that might have been quizzical. But his eyes...they were the colour of lavender shading into the red-gold of a young fire. And the power behind them _burned._ Against the calm, misty morning, it was as shocking as violence.

He spoke in a voice out of rich, secret places: ‘Starflame.’

His daggers were in his hands, throwing in a blur — and the pale, elegant fingers snapped out and caught them, as the wolf had snapped Beleg’s arrow from flight. The smile widened, showing white teeth and sharp incisors. On a Quendi, it would have been charming.  
‘I think... _not._ ’

The last thing he saw was his knives cast away as if they were nothing. As if he himself were nothing.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

There was a long, dark time lost in red fog. It was a journey he could not remember, ever after. Sometimes, he thought he tasted food, or strong, fiery drink like _stonemetalblood_ Snow crunched underfoot, an icy wind bit. At other times he caught the distinctive scents of Amathon and Arassel, even felt the heat of their bodies and knew, somehow, that they lived. But the impressions were brief, cloudy. He was, he knew later, wrapped in a cloak of sorcery.

 

 

There was stone under him. Hard. Cold. A sound throbbed through it like the labour of a thousand hearts. His fingers uncurled, moved across smooth rock. He opened his eyes to the bloody bloom of a black rose: curving dark walls washed with red as if some immense fire burned far away.

He moved, felt the tug against his wrist, the cold clasp of metal about it that bit hurting. Panic shot through him like an eruption of blood. The metal was cruel against his tendons. He panted.

Footsteps. He froze, eyes widening against the wash of light. Steps approaching, but not the light leather-on-stone tap of a booted Quendi. The footfall was not heavy, but it shook the bedrock, he felt it under his fingertips, through his skin. The rock keened, bowed its head under the tread. His hands went to where his knives would ride at his hips, until he remembered that they were gone.

His heart took panicked flight, but there was nowhere to run to, and how could he run. Was he not one of the leaders of his tribe? On legs that trembled, he got to his feet. Shadows shifted, dimmed and billowed again.  
There was more than one set of footsteps, the others had been muted under the tread of the first, but he heard them now, tensed further.

He came into the room like thunder, like a storm breaking, like mountains falling. His eyes held the dark between the stars, a scream of destruction that ate the world and disgorged it again, a cycle that never ended. His face was beautiful as a weapon is, as snowfall in a land without shelter.

The weight of his eyes came down on Élernil, stripping him naked, peeling back the barriers of his mind. His knees shook, cried to bend, to take him down in obeisance, an alien, unnatural reaction that he instinctively rejected. And still it was the hardest thing he had ever done to resist, bracing his knees against the visceral command of his soul. _Bow, worm, bow before me, for thou art nothing._.

There were others with him: one was the pale haired god whom had captured him, his face suave, looking nothing so much as intrigued. The others were...were...were...  
Fire wrapped them, split and hissed through the darkness of their skin. Inward curving horns rose from their skulls.

Hair that seemed to unravel into shadow moved in a wind Élernil could not feel. The dark god seemed tall as a pine, yet his eyes looked down into Élernil’s from no great distance. Those eyes slaughtered him, defleshed him of skin, ripped out his bones, cracked them between white teeth, sucked out the marrow.

 _What art thou_?

Something flashed and faded in his gaze, like a star bursting, dying into a sucking blackness. If the dark god had been in any way human, Élernil would have called the emotions envy and fear and hate.  
  
 _What art thou_?  
  
‘I am thy god, _Quendi._ Élernil Starflame.’  
  
There was a flash, a vision remembered: a god striding the universe, trailing his fingers through suns, birthing worlds within the flying cloak of his hair. A god walking toward battle and war, yet a god of creation.  
  
This god was not a god of life, or no life Élernil was familiar with. He was destruction and sacrifice upon black and bloody altars. And hate.  
  
‘No,’ Élernil whispered, lips and mouth dry as sand. Because this was not the truth, it could _not_ be the truth. ‘Thou art _not._ ’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bones of his knuckles cracked. He blinked out of darkness to a soft touch on them, gentling the skin, sinking through his trance like warm wine.

For just a moment, the room seemed to echo, to resonate with Melkor’s remembered power. The fire gulped, threw sparks and flames high up the chimney. Claire’s head snapped around to it, and it hissed like a Balrog’s laughter before dipping to a kinder glow.

‘I am sorry,’ Edenel said. ‘I need—‘ He felt an uprush like pain in his gut, like a stab-wound and realised it was shame. ‘A moment. Just a moment.’

Claire’s eyes were wide. ‘Of course, of course.’ She rose quickly, stumbling a little as if her legs were stiff, and poured them both some whiskey. He took the glass, let the mellow liquid slide down his throat, the bite of it, the heat.

Claire took his free hand in his. He stared down at it.  
‘I thought that...I remembered the god I had glimpsed among the stars, but here was...this, and his power was unquestionable.’ He closed his eyes. ‘And there was no-one to match him, no-one to help me.’

‘I know,’ she said, in a voice half-cracking. ‘I felt it. Him.’

He leaned his brow against hers. ‘I’m sorry, I wish...I _wish_ you did not. It is a memory only, but the Dagor Dagorath is coming, in my world. Soon.’

‘Morgoth hasn’t been destroyed then?’

‘Not yet.’

He heard her breath. ‘I see. Yes.’

He straightened, looking at her, wanting to think of her: her warmth, her understanding, the slide of firelight over her hair, this room, a haven in the storm, the taste of the whiskey in his mouth. The now, not the _then_

An odd expression chased across Claire’s features as if she had seen something that brought deeper understanding. ‘You’re anticipating it,’ she exclaimed softly. ‘You want to meet him in battle.’

‘Oh yes,’ Edenel said with a sweep of vengeance rising through the icy hollows of memory. ‘What is the phrase here? The playing field is rather more level now. But it will not be easy.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know what Melkor is here, but where we come from, Aelios and I, he is — was — a part of Eru, the negative aspect, one might say. He is far more powerful than a Vala. When he was on Arda he used much of his power to create and corrupt, and so was reduced, allowing himself to be defeated in the War of Wrath, but once he was imprisoned in the Void, his powers, what he had once been, returned. Like...ah...a reset I suppose.’

Claire’s brows drew down hard. ‘And where is Eru during all of this?’

Edenel looked at her. She had the gift of going straight to the heart of any matter.  
‘It is complicated,’ he said after a moment. ‘And not really relevant here and now. But I hope to tell thee one day.’

‘Very well,’ she acquiesced. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

‘Canst thou forgive me for being a coward?’ he asked and everything within him wanted to curl away, shrivelling, because whatever he did had not been enough, it could never be enough.

There was a spark, a crack as a log shifted, crumbled. When we spoke, Claire’s words sounded filled with air.  
‘You’re not. You’re not a coward.’

‘Should I have died?’ he wondered. ‘But I did not know how to. All I knew was how it live.’

‘No.’ She whispered it. Moisture welled in her eyes, traced down her cheeks. She released her hold on his hand, scrubbed it across the wetness. ‘No-one knows how to die. Everyone fights for life.’

He drew her into his arms. He was cold; there was a stone of dread in his gut cracking around a terrible emptiness that had no ending, because there was nothing else, nothing but the Dark God and his dark kingdom. Utumno. The Underworld. And it was everything and it was all, and he could not remember his brother’s name, or see his face, and then he could not remember who he himself had once been...  
‘Perhaps.’ He swallowed past a noose like strangulation. ‘I didn’t know how, Claire, I just could not imagine non-existence.’

She kissed his cheek as she moved away. She took a deliberate drink of whiskey, then set the glass down on the coffee table. He laid his own beside it. The fire made her look gilded and, oddly, only half-there, a creature wrought out of fire and storm, something poised on the edge of this world, bleeding into another.

She took his hands, laid her palms against his, folded her fingers through his, linking them.  
She said, without a tremor: ‘We’re going into the underworld together.’

‘I...Claire, I don’t know what it will do to you.’ His voice came ragged. But he knew what even the memories were doing to him.

‘Together,’ she repeated. ‘Hold on to me.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

He was never to set foot within another such place. Only — and long after — did the gigantic, dreamlike Palace of Eru in the Timeless Halls bear comparison, and that only in scale.

Utumno was immense. The power of the mind that had delved it thrummed like the aftermath of labour pains through smooth black rock that flickered and gleamed with red light that came from nowhere and everywhere. The ceilings soared upward, tall as a hill, passages opened out and curved away into shadow. Élernil felt the weight of the rock above him like a black hand pressing down.

_What dost thou want of me?_

A fire-creature lead him, hand on the chains. As he moved, his flesh or armour seemed to shift and crack, showing fissures of red fire. Its eyes were molten. Élernil thought it wore a long cloak until, in a burst of panic, he fought against the pull of his shackles and it turned, spreading wings of pure flame. The heat beat against his face. The pale-haired god spoke to it in a strange language filled with knives and the clash of hammer on crystal. It answered in the same tongue, showing white teeth and pointed incisors. Heat fumed from its mouth with each word. It jerked Élernil almost off his feet, prepared to drag him. Élernil would not allow that, though his legs were weak as water. He forced himself to go on. He could not think clearly, there was nothing here that was familiar, nothing he could recognise.

Eventually, the journey ended. He was in a massive chamber. A great chair sat upon a dais, ebony stone studded with polished gems as big as a man’s fist. Smokeless fires burned up around the edges of the room like spectators at a conclave. The floor was spread with wolf-pelts.

They stripped him and examined him, and Élernil’s mind collapsed into shock. He did not speak after that one desperate attempt at defiance which had been the only emotion he could summon.

At first it was the Dark God, stretching him out on cold stone, probing him as if to discover all the secrets of his body. Something small and tender inside him died. He had never been made to feel as if he were nothing at all, that anything he said or did or thought would be ignored, or worse not even be heard because he was less than an insect crawling on the earth that could be crushed, unnoticed, by a passing foot.

One did not question a Power, he learned. They did not hear.  
But his mind would not be silent. Why? Why was this happening? What did they _want of him_?

He vowed be would not make a sound, would not cry out. He thought: _I must endure this, and then I must — we must — escape._

Amathon and Arassel were not here; at least he could hold onto that thought. He wondered if they had managed to break free.

Later, he screamed.

Unmistakable, the signs that the god wanted him, but rape was unknown to Élernil; he could not open his mind to the knowledge that someone would force themselves on another. He struggled in his bonds until the impossible intent, the horror became real in a ripping, burning pain that seemed to tear him in half. He tried to claw himself away from the violation and could not, felt the terrible mental disconnect between himself and the pound of the god’s hips as if he, Élernil, were just a thing, a receptacle for lust. And not any lust he was familiar with; he knew all the shapings of desire, every mood of it. This was like punishment, hate, but he did not know what he had done to deserve it.

It was then, that he screamed, the sound forcing itself out like the sweat from his pores, like the blood from torn inner flesh.

There was no reaction at all. Red light on the walls, hard hands digging into his flesh, holding him in place. As his throat arched back, (screaming and screaming) he saw the pale-haired god watching without expression. There was nothing in the fire-backed eyes save a faint curiosity, no pity, no arousal, no concern; only that mild, interested scrutiny. Unhuman.

He wanted to pull himself from his outraged body, for his skin to split and release him so that whatever was left could flee away. But with that thought another form of terror crashed into him with a force that took his last sobbing breath. He did not know how to let go, did not know how to release his soul from the body that had given him so much joy and now was a conduit for the pain of his visions. It was here, and it was now, those dark, dreams. He had fled from Finwë straight into their arms.

_Finwë, Finwë._

But when he tried to think of his brother, the face was turned away. Élernil’s hands flexed, spread on the stone, damp from his own sweat. His nails pressed into it, trying to find another kind of pain, but there was nothing that would even touch the agony radiating out from the point of rape. It consumed him, ate him alive, became more than he was, until he was a mere mote within its blaze.

A dark wind rose and scoured the architecture of his soul bare. There was nothing but this forever and forever...

The white flames flared and dipped in time to the thrusts; beyond the pale god, the jewels on the throne flashed. Through tears, Élernil saw shapes, images flicker and die: _Three gems that might have set the world alight. A white-haired man that he thought was himself, (but it could not be) tearing a dripping heart from some hideous, fanged creature. Eight swords raised, tips touching in a vow that shook Time itself. A beautiful man playing a harp made of fire and grief. A hand scarred like a facets of a jewel. A woman’s face, skin blanched white over slender bones, a hand held out to him. She was backlit by fire..._

A hand in the darkness.

 _Hold on to me._  
  
He reached toward it.  
  
Like a wolf mounting a bitch, the dark god pounded into him, tearing him apart.  
  
A child is innocent until childhood ends.

  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 

He opened his eyes to red-lit stone. A voice seemed to echo in the shadows of his mind, a voice that said a name. It was not his name, but it meant something, and it was not _their_ voices. He followed it, let it draw him up through layers of the deepest sleep he had ever known.

He thought he saw fire; not the brutal red-black of the Underworld, but a hearth-fire lit warm against the winter. He felt fingers linked with his. His own spasmed as he emerged into wakening, clutching tight, but the sensation melted like smoke as resurgence of pain howled through him. Gasping, he curled up into a ball.

He breathed.

It was all he could do. After a time, the pain ebbed. There was blood, dried seed; every muscle and bone hummed, but it was less now, and to be free of that pain was such a relief he could find no words for it. Staring at the ceiling, his eyes blurred with tears until there was only a wash of light. Slowly, he uncurled himself from his body’s instinctive clench.

Murmurous water ran nearby, gentle, soothing. Sleep dragged at his very bones, but he was afraid to return to it. After a while, he pushed himself to his feet. Swore.

There was a cut channel of water flowing along one side of the chamber. It was cold, and smelt fresh, of deep, stony places and minerals. He gulped it in desperate handfuls, slaking a sudden, burning thirst, then scooped it up and cleansed himself, pushed his head under, scrubbed at his hair.

It did not take him long to discover the extent of his room.

 

He was imprisoned. Great bars of metal had been set into the stone, too narrow for him to squeeze through, and locked from the other side. There was a shape just within, a scent of cooked meat. Cautiously, he picked it up: a grouse from the highlands, spit-roasted, now cold. It had been flung onto the floor as one might toss a morsel to a wolf.

Food.

It was an intimation that his captors did not want him to die, or not yet.

He could not eat. His stomach revolted and he vomited into the water-channel.

Later, he made himself eat, chewing slowly.

 

He did not know what the dark god wanted, or why he had been...hurt, (if he thought about it, his mind began to crack in horror and so he could not; he edged around it like a man around fragile ice) but he must remember there was a world out there where he had been free and once, had been loved.

But where were Amathon And Arassel? He had not imagined them...had he?

No sun, no moon, no change in the air, no way to tell the passing of time. Only this terrible red-lit darkness, the perpetual throb in the rock, (heartbeat of a god?).

 _What does he want of me — of us_?

He tried to think of love and laughter, the stupendous, breathless joy of discovery, of living: bright mornings that spread into long, lazy days, nights when he lit the fires and listened to the first breath of winter sing in the trees, the taste of wine, of the crispness of frost under his feet, lips eager and ardent against his. Where were they? Where had they gone? In this crushing half-light they seemed like a dream.

He closed his eyes. Behind them, wavering, and remote like things seen far away, on a sunlit hill, he recalled the visions in the flashing gemlight of a god’s throne, and a hand extended to his.

_Hold on to me._

His head went up at a sound, close or far away, it wailed through the passageways in terror and despair. _No. Please, no._

He limped to the bars, fell against their denial, and closed his hands around the metal, shaking them. So deeply were they driven into the stone that they did not move.  
His voice joined the ululation of rape and agony.

_Amathon. Arassel._

_I am here, I am here. Hold on to me._

_Hold on to me._

Their minds blanched white with agony.

Pain.

Music of a dark god.

 

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**


	9. ~ Unravelling ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for horror: Rape, loss of dignity, slavery, imprisonment. In this ‘verse, Elves are tormented and corrupted to orcs in Utumno; this is a pivotal part of Élernil/Edenel’s life and cannot be fudged or smoothed over. If these things are likely to trigger you, do not read.

  
  
  
  


**~ Unravelling ~**

 

 

 

 

~ For a long suspended time, the warm, bright room melded with the rock-cell in Utumno, one overlaid on the other. The grip on his hands tightened and slowly the cell dissolved, faded into the past.

Unable to look at Claire’s face, Edenel focussed on their linked fingers, not even blinking until she gently disengaged, pushed the whiskey glass into his hands.

‘Drink.’ There was a tremor in her voice, a welling bubble of emotion. He tipped back the glass. His teeth rattled against it. Forcing calm into his muscles, he took a swallow. He must, under the onslaught of memory, have bitten his tongue. The spirit burned in the cut. Then he felt her hand pushing back his hair.  
‘It’s alright,’ she said gently. ‘You’re here. You’re safe.’

He said through a constricted throat: ‘I am...so sorry you had to see that.’

Her breath came out in a gasp. ‘ _You_ were the one this happened to!’

At last, he looked up, saw only compassion in her eyes. He did not know what to do with it; there had been none in Utumno. He still felt raw, dislocated. It still hurt. Claire saw it.

‘You’re in pain.’

‘It is not real. Memory pain.’

‘Oh, god, what _is_ real anymore?’ There was a half-sob in her voice of too much emotion pushing to the surface. She moved closer, slid an arm around his waist. He dropped his head against her hair. ‘Maglor has told me something about the memory of Elves.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘It hurts, but it will subside. Sauron — Mairon as I learned to call him, then — came to examine me. He was,’ he added bitterly, ‘surprised and pleased at how quickly I healed. And, from what he said, it was the same with Amathon and Arassel.’

He felt the upsurge of breath, the catch to it. The sparkling rage.  
‘I have seen a few things,’ she said. ‘In my days in London, but I _never_ understood cruelty.’

Edenel flinched. ‘I am afraid that I was guilty of that myself — after.’

She said quickly: ‘I am not surprised, hatred begets hatred. People who have been abused, often go on to abuse. People who have known violence often offer it.’

‘You are quick to defend me,’ he murmured. ‘But you do not know what I did. Have not seen it.’

‘I think I did, actually.’ Her arm tightened. ‘A man with white hair, holding a bloody heart.’

His eyes snapped shut. ‘I did not...I did not think...I thought that could not be me. I did not know or recognise any of those images until later.’ He sat up abruptly. ‘I remember seeing them. But—‘

Claire straightened, watching him. ‘What?’

‘I saw thee.’ The firelight beat against his eyes. The vision returned to him, all its fragmented-jewel brightness in a dark, dark place. ‘Claire,’ he said, and his voice sounded strained in his own ears. ‘I saw thee. A woman holding out her hand, limned by fire. I wanted to reach that hand, to hold onto it. I tried to.’ He turned to her. ‘How could I? How could I have seen thee?’

She moistened her lips, whispered: ‘I saw it too. I don’t know. But you were seeing the future, Edenel.’

‘Forgive me,’ he swallowed. ‘I am not making this clear. The first time, in Utumno, I did not see thee, I just remember losing consciousness. But this time, I _did_ see that image. And the memory was clear, accurate. It can only ever be accurate when Elves remember. I do not understand it.’ He looked into her wide, searching eyes, saw the little frown. ‘But I could never have related this, never have gone back to it, without thee. I think in some way, thou wert truly holding onto me. And that terrifies me to my bones, Claire. I don’t know what I have done to thee or how it will affect thee.’

 _It will affect her,_ came Vanimórë’s voice. _Just as my blood did — and is still — affecting her, but it is truly Claire who is affecting thee, Edenel. In that world, it is a theory called retrocausality, the future affecting the past. But that is only one aspect of it. A multitude of universes exist, some are almost identical to one another, others vastly different. What thou art seeing, and now living, is a reality where Claire is, in a sense, with thee in Angband, her spirit, her presence. In this reality, what she does now, is influencing thy past._ There came the equivalent of a mental shrug. _How is happened is less important than that it happened._

Edenel felt his heart beating in his throat.  
 _I should never have walked this path, never dragged her into it._

‘I’ve been changed,’ Claire said in a distant, inward-looking voice that snapped his attention back to her. ‘I know that. And I can’t regret it.’ A moon-slice of smile moved her mouth. ‘Not if it helped you..there.’

‘I took them there,’ he said. ‘My companions, lovers, friends, into Melkor’s jaws. And now, in a way, I am taking you. And I promised Maglor that I would watch over thee.’

The smile fell away. ‘You...why?’

‘Not because we think thou art any kind of weak link,’ he assured her. ‘But because we know Sauron. And thou art very dear to Maglor. To _us._ ’  
  
Colour rose into her cheeks. She said after a short hesitation: ‘I hate feeling as if I need to be protected, Edenel. I understand, having seen Sauron in your memories, and having _met_ of one his servants, but I still don’t like feeling as if you’re all looking out for me. In fact I was wondering....I don’t know any martial arts or anything like that, but _you_ all know how to fight.’  
  
He smiled. ‘And yet thou didst kill Thuringwethil, making use of the only object around that could be used as a weapon. Thou art a quick thinker and overcame shock and fear. Not everyone can do that.’  
  
‘I can’t rely on that, though, can I? That was just...instinct.’  
  
‘A good one, one that killed an ancient horror.’  
  
‘But there might be others,’ she said. ‘I want to learn how to defend myself.’  
  
‘Any of us, or all, could train thee. There is power in thy blood but,’ he glanced at the fire, ‘that leaves a mark, a scent if thou wilt, that anyone else with power can feel, even trace. The other will not.’ And would not avail against Sauron, but there was no need to say that; she knew.  
  
Decision hardened her face. ‘That’s good, then. And yes, if you were thinking that it wouldn’t help if we ran into Sauron, no, I suppose not, but if Sauron has agents, servants, whatever they are, some might be just as human as I am...was.’ A flicker there. ‘And it would make _me_ feel better.’  
  
Edenel agreed. ‘I know, Claire; feeling helpless is...uncomfortable. I did not know how to fight myself, only to wrestle or hunt, when I went into Utumno. Very well. The snow will lie thick for a few days, but that big living room across the hall; there is room if we push back the furniture. If thou didst wish to begin soon.’  
  
‘The sooner the better, I think.’ She pressed his hand. ‘Thank you.’  
  
‘Tomorrow then, if thou wilt tell Maglor and Aelios thy wishes. But this will be a long night, Claire. A tiring one.’ And that was an understatement.  
  
‘I’ll sleep late if I need to,’ she said, ‘or catch up.’ A silence fell, Her next words came measured, as if she were picking her way amongst shards of glass. ‘Aelios. Coldagnir. He was there. In Utumno, In Angband. He...when he told me about what he did,’ she frowned. ‘what he was, how he fought, was culpable in the deaths of Fëanor and Fingon, and was in Gondolin...And that is not all, by a long way, is it?’ Edenel shook his head. ‘How can you forgive a war criminal for their crimes? It’s always _there._ And he raped you. And I can’t even...I can’t imagine it, looking at what he is now.’  
  
Edenel inhaled sharply. ‘He did not look much as he did now, as thou must have seen, though he appeared the most human, perhaps, of all the Balrogs. And he had been in Utumno a long time. What he was, had been buried, twisted, corrupted, even hidden by Eru from Melkor. He himself went through what we Quendi did. I saw Gothmog rape him, and Melkor.’  
  
Her head ducked a little, shoulders stiff, and then lifted, eyes on his face.  
‘Yes, he did tell me. And yet you were not corrupted, or any of the _Ithiledhil._ Why?’  
  
‘Was I not?’ he wondered bitterly. ‘I was taken into Utumno as Élernil. I emerged as nothing until I took a new name. Even the orcs called us demons.’  
  
‘Is that how you think of yourself,’ she asked sadly. ‘Even now? Is that how Aelios thinks of himself?’  
  
‘I cannot answer for Aelios; he has his own memories and his own demons. One of them he slew. But still, there are always memories. I think, yes, sometimes he does, and yes, sometimes I do.’ She would see, as the retelling wound on.  
  
The wind whined like a soul lost in the night. She leaned against him, taking his hand in her lap, and holding it clasped between both of hers. More than a gesture, it was a statement of trust. He put an arm around her, felt her warmth sink through the congealing ice in his soul.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The pale god ( _I am named Mairon, thou wilt address me as my Lord, and our master, Melkor, as simply that: Master_ ) said: ‘Clench.’

His cheeks scorching, eyes closed, Élernil tightened the muscles of his back passage. Mairon gave a faint grunt and removed his fingers.

‘Thou art continent?’

‘Yes...my Lord.’

He had not been, for a short time after the rape, using the outflow of the water channel to relieve and clean himself. The humiliation was as destructive as rot. His body had never so betrayed him before, not even after a night of wild sex around the festal fires, not on those more recent occasions when Finwë had wanted him and taken him with a savage, almost hating desire over and over.

This was (again) something new and horrific. Was it to be like that as long as he lived, waste leaking from him? For a while he hardly dared move, eat or drink, locked into the hard-held shock of pain and crippling embarrassment.  
But it healed. His muscles, as they closed about Mairon’s fingers were evidence of that.  
There was heat in the hands that touched him so impersonally, then they withdrew.  
‘Interesting.’ His voice was cool as mist at dusk. ‘The bruises have faded also. Get up.’

They were in Mairon’s chambers, rooms that opened onto other rooms, hot and cold fires, a strange scent of minerals and metal. Drapes soft as petals in crimson and black. All was elegant and precise and rare.

Edenel rose, pulled his leggings up to his waist and laced them. He said, as he did so: ‘My companions...my Lord?’  
It was difficult to call him thus; the words hit a restriction every time they rose from his throat; he had to push them out through the hate.

‘All of thee heal the same way,’ Mairon laved his hands at a bowl cut into the stone of the wall. ‘There is something though...’ He spoke as though to himself. ‘But it is well. Thou wouldst be on no use hadn’t thou died.’

‘Why?’ Edenel asked. ‘Why art thou doing this?’

Mairon turned. ‘My Lord has a use for thee.’ A flickering smile. ‘Thou art self-aware, thinking creatures. And Eru’s children.’

_Eru’s children._

Edenel’s breath caught. He wanted to weep and had vowed he would not, not here, where tears were useless and left one peeled open like a skinned hare, everything exposed.

Mairon watched him with the precise distance of an eagle poised over prey.  
‘Thou wert a vision once, now brought into reality. Living. Breathing. I wonder,’ he added smilingly, ‘how much thou canst bear. I wonder how much thou wilt...change.’

 

 

 

 

He did not see Amathon and Arassel. But he heard them. The way sound traveled in these subterranean halls so that it arrived like the fall of a whip across naked skin.  
Whips. Élernil came to know those, too; the whips of the fire-demons, _Valaraukar_ that burned as they fell, opening raw, red lines in his skin.

And the _Valaraukar_ within him, furnace-hot pain that burst through his head until he was just a thing that screamed until his throat broke. He was more than incontinent after; he bled, curled up in agony.

‘They can contain their fire,’ Mairon explained in that calm, disinterested tone. ‘Or I think even thou would be roasted from the inside-out. But Gothmog becomes a little...excited. He has been ordered not to do so again.’ That sharp little smile.

Mairon was a greater mystery than Melkor. There was absolute empathy in his eyes — and a complete lack of humanity. (But he was _not_ human. Were all gods thus? As barren and as disconnected from emotion?) It seemed he could feel and comprehend suffering and yet it did not touch him. He was simply interested, as if Élernil was an experiment.  
He was. They were.

It is said that slaves or captives, dependent entirely on the whims of their masters, attempt to please them in all ways out of self-preservation, fearing death or pain. Death was not a path Edenel could take, or refused to, for how could he leave his friends alone while they still lived (if one could call it living)? He had no intention of pleasing these malicious dark gods, thus he set his will to endure the torment; whether the endless time left alone in a cell or the punishment.

And he punished himself. He had heard the warnings, even heeded them, and even so had lead his companions north, into these iron jaws that had caught them and were mauling them, picking them apart, relishing each issue of blood, each scream.

 

 

There were other things here, beyond the gods, the _Valaraukar_. If there was a hierarchy that was how it was numbered, but below the fire demons were servants, creatures that had once been spirits of the land, twisted into new forms.

Thuringwethil.

What she had once been, Élernil did not know. She could take the shape of a huge bat or a woman. He had seen her in the background of his rapes, sometimes, drooling, leering; seen her gliding, robed in black, through hallways, hair flowing around a white face.

He was woken from a deep sleep to the prick of nails. She walked a hand over him. He saw the glint of her long canines.

‘Such thin skin,’ she whispered, like the scrape of steel on glass. ‘How does it hold in so much blood?’ Prick, pick, prick, went the nails like a bird’s claws. ‘Thou art pretty. Darkness and snow and those red lips...such rich, red blood in the lips.’

His heart jolted. She smiled, fingers sliding down to his heart. ‘Ah, I feel that.’  
She squatted him, legs apart, bent her head, tilted it back and forth like a crow. Disgusted, he drew up a leg and thrust into her chest. She fell backward, shrieking. Her eyes turned bottomless black as she lunged back.

‘Leave him,’ came Mairon’s command.

She turned her head in that odd jerky motion. The hiss-scratch voice: ‘I want him, Lord. He is pretty.’

‘Well, it does not seem as if he wants thee.’ Mairon’s robes brushed against Élernil’s cheek, cinnamon-and-metal displacing the rankness. He seized her hair, threw her back against the wall. Jointed legs splayed as gathered herself. ‘Get out.’

She snarled at him. ‘I hunger, _I hunger._ Give him to me.’ Her shadow loomed on the wall, wings half-unfurling.

Mairon sounded amused. ‘I know thine appetites, Thuringwethil. Thou shalt have neither, and I will chain thee in torment for an Age if thou doth dare to touch him without permission. And this one’s cock will not rise for thee. Not yet. Leave. Go south and feed in the forests. Find some rats.’ Contemptuous. ‘Fuck some rats if thou canst find any who will come near thee. _Go._ ’ There was a flash of red light and a scream. The creature scuttled out.

Mairon turned back to Élernil. ‘Thou art not charmed by our Lady of Shadow? A pity. My Lord will let her have thee one day, when thou art so changed she does not disgust thee. But it seems she yet does.’

He could still smell her stink; it was like an infection. ‘Never.’

‘One day,’ Mairon repeated inflexibly. ‘thou wilt be so changed thou wilt rut her eagerly.’ He ran his hand down Élernil’s chest, to his contracting stomach muscles, lower, to his groin. It paused there, the heel digging lightly, circling. ‘No, she is not very attractive. And she forgets her glamour too easily as yet. The women of the Quendi are rather more desirable, are they not? Their faces in your mind: men, women, so beautiful, the gathered distillation of Eru’s love crystallised into being and... _burning._ ’ He closed his fingers around Élernil’s lax length. ‘Thou art right to be disgusted by Thuringwethil, her...coarseness. _Thou_ wert made for finer things: beauty, passion. Dost thou remember it, even now?’ He circled Élernil’s opening. ‘Requited desire. To look into a face of loveliness, opening to thee, losing control to every thrust, every touch, every word? The purity of lust.’ Long hair spilled down, curtaining Élernil’s face in icy gold. ‘If there is any place for rawness, for unravelling, it is there.’ Slowly, he pushed one finger into Élernil’s passage. It was warm, slick with oil. Élernil shuddered, slammed his eyes shut as it crooked and stroked and withdrew to be replaced with two, working at the nub of pleasure.

For all his determination not to respond, he hardened, loathing the betrayal of his body, the whispered words, the scent of spice and fire that fell upon him tantalising all his senses. Perhaps he responded simply because there was such a contrast between Thuringwethil and Mairon, a relief that it was not her. Perhaps, though, it was not. This was a seduction, a skilful playing of his body, bringing to the surface all the memories of desire he had thought lost.

He fought it. Until tears ran from the corners of his eyes as Mairon undid him.

_Come apart for me._

Because it was not brutality, it was a deliberate riposte to brutality, he realised after. Fingers replaced by a phallus, gentleness building gradually to wildness. (How he preferred it) And still he battled not to release.

_Unravelling._

Pleasure came like the approach of a storm, thunder rising through nerve and blood and bone, an unbearable _need._ It overbore him, broke the shackles of resistance. He cried out, responding, demanding, his world contracting into sheer sensation.

 _Unravelling_.

When the orgasm came it was relief and astonishment and agonising brightness. There was no thought, no guilt, no grief, no terror. Only the glory of it, incandescent pleasure where, for so long, there had only been pain. He spent and spent, body racking with it.

‘So, thou art still responsive to the finer things,’ Mairon mused. ‘You still feel desire. Interesting. Unexpected. I think my Lord could make better use of thee. I certainly could. Such a pity. Such a waste.’

Élernil came out of the warm lassitude as if slapped awake. He wanted to curl up in shame, to eat himself alive. He rose to his knees, lifted his head. Mairon closed long fingers on his jaw.  
‘Those eyes, how they _burn._ What is it, Élernil Starflame. How art thou defying my Lord? Whence comes this fire that will not be quenched?’

Élernil said: ‘From he who made me.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

They denied him food, after, denied him water, giving him stoppered vessels of some fierce black drink that made the heat of rage rise into his skull. Hunger gnawed his belly hollow, and then they fed him rancid meat that made him vomit, the heads of birds, raw offal. He brought it all up in heaving spasms. His body felt too light, enervated. Dizziness assaulted him. After a time, the meat was cooked again. His stomach filled, strength returned to him.

‘The swiftness of thy healing is remarkable,’ Mairon noted.

It never occurred to him, once he was brought into Utumno, to try and escape. He judged it impossible, so closely was he watched, but he would not, anyhow, leave without the companions his stupidity and pride and cowardice (running away from pain and a bruised ego instead of accepting the situation, making it easy for Finwë) had trapped with him.

How long it was, before he heard other voices than Amathon and Arassel (or at least their screams) he was uncertain. His body held no rhythm of time, in the Underworld. But he heard them, smelled the scent of the outside: sun warmed grass and rain and, trees. His head came up; he found himself at his cell doors, straining forward and felt the terrible, confused fear that found answering echoes in his own blood and soul.

No.

He knew them all, but some were close to him, had been friends, lovers...Culina,

Ára, Lóme, Súre, Nasse...  
  
He called out with his mind, but he had never been able to reach Amathon and Arassel since coming here; Melkor’s power crushed and muffled  
mind-speech until it felt as if one were shouting thinly into a void of darkness. He could only receive impressions of pain, of horror — and the vein of resolve that ran through it, like stria through muscle. Élernil believed, _hoped_ , that he felt that strength, that steadfast resistance growing stronger, annealed by torment, but these new souls, they were as he had been, as Amathon and Arassel had been when first they came. Innocent. Unbearable to think of what they would face. To _know_ it.  
  
And the women, the women...ice slid down his spine, pooled in his gut. He did not know if their wombs could grow the seed of a monster, a corrupted spirit, a _Valarauka_. Even imagining it brought sickness crowding into his throat.  
  
There was nothing, then, save the terror-thoughts, for a long time. The dread. And then the screams. Élernil wanted to dig himself into the wall to escape from them, to muffle himself in silence and ignorance, but he could not. For them, he had to hear, deserved to hear. He cracked his head against the stone until it bled and his own pain joined theirs. But it was not enough. It could never be enough.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Élernil was their chieftain. His people spoke his name, sometimes. Or maybe they cursed it. He guessed that Melkor believed he must break Élernil first, so that the others might follow. And so. So...

They took him and suspended him in the outpour of an underground waterfall that plunged into unknown black depths. The icy water pounded him senseless but before that was the dread of falling, falling, forever falling into that lightless abyss. He could barely breathe, took mouthfuls of water he choked on, his wrists and arms yelled pain, then grew numb, cold seized his body. When he was pulled up he was unable to stand, shaking. He collapsed at Mairon’s feet, and woke to voices.

‘They are not indestructible.’ Melkor’s voice, a whirlpool of malice, a rumbling emptiness. Hunger and hate beyond Élernil’s comprehension. ‘They die easily enough —‘

‘Not this one, it seems, my Lord.’

‘— But I do not want them dead. That would serve me not at all. Though there is bound to be some little...wastage.’

His eyes were blurred, but he knew this place: the Throne Hall. _Valaraukar_ flanked it, one of them the greatest, the most brutal, a huge, hulking creature.

Footsteps. Melkor’s presence pushed into his senses like an iron door. Freezing. Burning. Élernil opened his eyes, looked into those of Melkor, blue-black, with chips of light like stars in the darkness. A hand tugged at his hair, sifted it through armoured fingers as if testing a fine cloth.  
‘Here is something fascinating.’ As he raised his hand, Élernil saw white strands shocking through the black. He wondered, vaguely, what he looked like now, how the Underworld was changing him. The parts of himself he could see appeared unaltered.

‘Indeed,’ Mairon hummed agreement. ‘He is unusual, this one. Those eyes...’

‘ _Starflame,_ ’ Melkor said, a mocking parody of tenderness. ‘What dost thou hope for? Eru is not coming to rescue thee. His mind created thee and he left thee. But I — I am here. _I_ am thy god.’

Red-hot pain was beginning to throb through him, blood moving through his veins. His voice was slurred, as he said: ‘I have seen the Creator.’

‘And now he is gone.’ But there was a lizard-flash of something unnameable, perhaps unbearable. ‘And I rule this world.’ Black robes whirled and spun with a scent like an ice storm as he walked away. Mairon lifted slim brows at Élernil and said, ‘Shall I have it removed, my Lord?’

‘Yes. It has been alone too long. Take it down to the pits.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The pits. Vast chambers upheld by black pillars and flanked by barred cells. There were other cells delved into the floor, and chains hung from the ceiling holding cages. As the _Valarauka_ named _Nemrúshkeraz_ prodded him within, Élernil, for the first time since his capture, saw other Quendi. Saw how many there were.

Oh, _Eru_. They were filthy and terror-stricken and yet they were _his_. And they turned as he entered, pressing themselves against the bars, some calling or mouthing his name. Their eyes struck him like arrow bolts, then clung to him as if they could not believe what they were seeing, that he was alive. He named them all in his mind, for even those he did not know well, those of the other tribes. He reached out his manacled hands, but could not go to them, could offer no comfort. There was none to offer.

The pits.

Here was corruption born, tended a grower will nurture the first frail shoots of the season. Élernil watched it happen and was a part of it. The starving, until they would eat anything, vomiting it up, but desperate, and eating until it stayed down. Deprived of water until they gulped the toxic black drink that sent some of them into raging madness, breathed the strange potions and smokes that dulled or sharpened the senses to pain.

There was no privacy, and no consolation. Each of them was held in a separate cell, separated by thick walls. They could see, but not touch, must shout to be heard, and the _Valaraukar_ patrolled, slicing their whips at any who tried to communicate with voice.

Some, Élernil saw, went inward, staring at nothing, rocking back and forth, others fought, threw themselves against bar or chain or wall, till more screamed and howled like animals. His own mind fought against collapse. He reached out with it: _Please hold on._ But what was he asking them to hold on to? Melkor was right: no-one was coming to save them.

He saw the women raped and it broke something in him. Some died; a few swelled with monstrous things that ate their way out, multifanged, hideous and he screamed with the women, shook at the cage until his hands were raw.

It was how he learned that the Quendi could die if violated. Perhaps it happened more to those who had loved the most, who had close mates, but if so, he was not one of them, and there had been no closer mate than Finwë— once.  
There were those who retreated into madness. He watched the lovely Culina, glorious hair gone lank and filth-matted, curl within herself, grey eyes blank as they winter sky. It had been some monster who took her, once a spirit of the air, he guessed, now an attenuated wraithlike creature that raped her as she fought and was held down by _Valarauker_. The biggest of them, the most brutish, laughed like a landslide in the mountains.

Rape. A new word for an atrocity hitherto unknown to the Quendi.

He could see Culina’s cell from where his cage hung in the centre of the immense chamber. All he could do for her was try to reach into her mind, holding onto her, as sometimes, when he fell into a sleep which was pure exhaustion, he felt that ephemeral hand gripping his, tethering him to some distant dream-world where there was light and hope.

 

 

 

 

It was not long before they began using the Elves as leverage against one another. And the threats were not empty, but real. If they failed to do what they were ordered to, there was death, sometimes long and slow, sometimes mercifully swift. One did not know. It seemed to depend on the mood of the torturer, which could be Melkor or Mairon, or _Valaraukar_ , or some other monster.

‘Eat it,’ Mairon commanded. ‘Or it will die.’

 _It_ was excrement. _It_ was them, all of them, spoken of on the same level as waste.

Élernil could not look at the Elf, who was of Ingwë’s folk and known to him, though not a friend. But what did that matter? He looked at the bowl from which rose a stink. His gorge rose. He could not. He could _not_. No-one could.

He tried. His stomach heaved at the first taste and touch. And then the screaming began. He tried again, desperately, but his body betrayed him (again) and he heaved it up.

In his cage, after death had come, he plunged his hands into the water bucket (a waste, there was so little) tried to rinse away the taste and _feeling_ of filth.

He could not.

He had to. They would make him do it until he succeeded.

There was no privacy, none at all. A little perhaps for those in cells against the walls, but none for him in his open cage. Was that the point of his being there, he had wondered, so that the prisoners might see one of their leaders disintegrate?  
He had glimpsed the engineering of Utumno: the awful grandeur of the Throne Hall, the elegance of Mairon’s chambers, the running water that carried away dirt. Even in his first prison there had been fresh water.

In the pits, there was nothing. The servants threw water at them; that was the extent of cleanliness, and the place stank of urine and faeces, blood and vomit. Élernil had become accustomed to it, and loathed that he had. He could no longer remember, save in dream, the scent of soap, clean cloth, damp skin, the soft slide and smell of washed hair. Perhaps it was as well.  
  
There was no possible way of cleaning himself properly. His bodily excretions were collected in a hole beneath the cage where all the waste from the pits was shovelled, and the fumes rose in an acrid, belly-churning stink around him. Perhaps that too, was a blessing.  
  
Because he _had_ to do this.  
  
He dared not moan with disgust nor whimper, show any weakness at all. Some of the were looking at him from behind their bars. He had already failed them and caused death. He must not do so again. Trembling took his body, water sprang in to his mouth. He scooped up the floating filth from the water and drank it, forcing his stomach to hold it, pushing down the spasms that wanted to expel it, weathering the explosion of nausea. He closed his eyes, chill sweat breaking out over his body and shivered, swallowing retching gulps. He clenched his stomach, closed his throat. He fought the need to vomit as he wished he could fight these dark gods and their servants.  
  
He held it down.  
  
It was a beginning.  
  
When he was ordered to eat excrement again, he did not fail.  
  
  
  
  
  
Culina was growing a child. It was awful and impossible. Women of the Quendi quickened with joy and love. This was dark sorcery, incomprehensible evil. When she moved in her cell, he could see the soft rounding of her belly. Some time after the rape, she had turned to look at him. There was awareness in her eyes, recognition. She sat thus, or lay, her eyes on him. He tried to press hope into her soul, strength, tried to do that with all whose eyes he could meet.  
  
They were becoming strangers, dirty faces lost in the mats of encrusted hair, eyes going away, becoming something less human, more bestial. Élernil used all his remaining will to hold them to what they had been, what they _were_. How he remembered them, before, in that world he himself was finding it difficult to recall.  
  
Some ceased to speak, made grunting sounds, crawled in their cells on all fours. These were taken away. He did not see what was done to them but, ah, the way sound carried here...he heard. The dead were dragged off. Élernil could not think about what happened to them, or the meat that was flung to those still alive. There were less of them, now.  
  
Mairon walked into the pits as if immune to the stench or the horror. _Valaraukar_ lowered Élernil’s cage to the floor, unlocked his shackles from the bars and dragged him out. He found his feet and walked past eyes dull, or fierce or unseeing. The most aware, even Culina, moved to the bars, watching.  
  
There was a slab of rock, square cut. He had seen his people killed upon it. Blood had dried and darkened until it crusted the stone.  
It was to be him, then. Fear slid into him like a dagger, his breath came short. His legs threatened to buckle under him. He pushed his will into them and walked, head raised, commanding himself to die without begging. A forlorn hope; there always came a time when the pain was too much. He had seen it.  
  
They pushed him down, so that his chest lay along the stone. Fingers ripped off his leggings, pulled them about his ankles. It would begin with rape then, he thought, jaw clenching. Not Mairon, surely; there was an essential fastidiousness to Mairon and Élernil was all-too aware of his own filthiness.  
  
The air pressure changed behind him in a strange displacement. The great _Valarauka_ dragged his chains through a ring on the floor, locked them there, clamped burning hot hands down over Élernil’s wrists. Suphur-breath chuffed as it rumbled approval.  
  
Not this one, or not yet. Élernil closed his eyes. The one they called _Nemrúshkeraz_ , perhaps, the one who most resembled a Quendi under the dark flames. Or Lungorthin. He waited for the pain to begin.  
  
Then he heard the claws click on stone. He stiffened, thinking of Thuringwethil, but the tread was heavier, the claws harder, the scent that of...wolf.  
  
In an upsurge of shock, he heard the prisoners shout, curse, scream as the great beast mounted him.  
  
Red-black horror took his soul, a deluge, a storm of poison. He threw back his head, a white spark in his mind that detonated as he screamed denial against the pound of the wolf into him, the sheer bestiality of the act, what it reduced him to.  
  
The whiteness obliterated sight and then, feeling, and Élernil was within it and of it, _was_ it. Burning. He thought he felt, far away, the slither of metal on his wrists as the shackles fell away, thought he heard the _Valarauka_ roar, but it was so distant and mattered nothing. He burned in the heart of the stars the Creator had birthed, and if this was death he embraced it, welcomed it, the cleansing of Light and Power, even as he screamed—  
  
— He opened his eyes to a silence that held a peculiar awed quality, like the quiet after thunder. His hands, stretched before him on the stone, were free. Cool whiteness fell over them, tumbled over the black stone like blown snow. He pushed himself up, and the white waves moved. He realised, numbly, that it was his hair.  
  
The _Valarauka_ had stepped back, fuming from its open maw, red whip raised. Élernil turned, saw that Mairon stood there hand stretched out in a command for the monster to keep away.  
  
Mairon stepped forward, seized Élernil’s jaw in his hand. He turned his head to the side, then drew it back, looked into his eyes.  
‘Well,’ he murmured smiling. ‘that was unexpected. Nemrúshkeraz, bring him.’  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. ~ Other ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for what is a self-induced abortion. if this triggers you, please don’t read.

  
  
  
  


**~ Other ~**

 

 

 

 

He was shaking, aware that Claire’s hands were gripping his, had been doing so through the entire narration; which was so much more than mere words. She was seeing, feeling, submerged within those ancient, ice-clear memories.  
And then, the trembling ceased. Stopped as it had then, as if he walked through a barrier and left his old self behind. The fire had burned it out of him.

From the hall came the _tick-tock_ of a clock, a counterpoint to the wind, the click of the air bubbles in the radiators, the settling creaks of the Manse. Little moments of time marking the night, the jarring juxtaposition of almost-normality and the depths of the first Hells.

He thought he had been in shock for a while after his changing. But after it, he could not return to what he was before. Élernil had died in the pits. The thing he had become, had a mission. He was working toward a certain end, and it required he enact a part. Real or assumed, that act had driven into him like tree-roots into rich soil, down down, to reach the bedrock of his soul.

He rose, slowly, bent to kiss Claire’s forehead, and went into the kitchen. He  
made coffee, poured a generous serving of whiskey into each mug, and took it back into the room.

Claire had added more wood to the fire, and was standing before it, head bent to the flames, one hand clenched in the folds of her house-robe. He set the mugs on the table, watched her. She seemed as far away as the floating moon.

Then she turned, and he saw tears on her cheeks — tears and such fury in her eyes he was taken aback for a moment, before he realised it was not directed at him but at Melkor, at Sauron, and embraced not only their torture of him, but every Elf who had disappeared into Utumno’s black jaws.

It was such a vast and horrific thing to encompass and emerge with rage the uppermost emotion. It reminded him of Vanimórë, how he used anger to stoke the fires within (made of love and an iron compassion) until it had become a weapon pointed at the heart of all he hated and despised. But he did not think this was an aspect of Vanimórë’s blood; from what he had learned from Maglor, had himself observed, this was authentically Claire James.

She came toward him, the fire behind her turning her hair into whorls of rosy-gold, and put her arms around him. He stiffened a moment, because she had _seen_ what was done to him and how he could not fight or help anyone save by an inner resistance. But the emotion that travelled through her embrace to him held no judgement — at least, not for him. He returned it, her hair soft against his chin, and closed his eyes. Even now, even still, the _Ithiledhil_ were not a people who could easily show emotion. They were afraid of it. Utumno had unearthed them, unroofed them even as it was itself unroofed when war came. They had wept and raged and begged and screamed there into ears that ignored them as nothing. Experiments. They knew, every last survivor, how deep emotions could go, the helpless vulnerability of them.

After, in the deep forest of Taur-im-Duinath, they had permitted themselves the catharsis of primal sex, and so powerful and frightening had that been — the _Anguish_ they called it — they even set a limit to it: four times a year on the days that, in this world, were named Midsummer, Midwinter, May Day and Halloween. Those days had meaning even then.  
At all other times, they were chaste; even when they fought and killed the orcs, the Fell-wolves, the trolls, when they cut out the corrupted hearts and ate that tough muscle, they were calm, cold. The easy camaraderie of close fellowship was impossible, though people could have been more attuned to one another. Even living in New Cuiviénen had not changed that. Though he loved Finwë’s descendants, would have opened his veins for them unquestioningly, he was still first and foremost _Ithiledhil_. There was always a mental distance. He watched from across a divide.

And Maglor, whom he felt kin to, and whom had given him back something he believed lost even as his own name was lost (though the Edenel of this reality was long dead, bones gone to dust in buried Utumno, soul sent to the Void) he wished he could give him the closeness he had known with his true family. In his mind, he was kin, but was he not also an imposter? And there was, even now, that dreadful fear of loss. Watching those they had known die, go mad, be dragged away to dissection and death...or emerge so changed they were no longer Quendi. _Losing them._ The _Ithiledhil_ were bound in ways few could imagine, trusted one another absolutely, but so much had been burned out of them and they were, each and every one, terrified of further loss.

But Claire reached across the great divide to him, fearless in her warmth, and would not let him go. The glassy calm deserted him. A shock of emotion rose in his throat. She seemed to feel it and her arms tightened. He sank down onto the sofa, and battled with an overwhelming urge to weep. His body shook with the effort it took to hold the tears back.

‘You don’t have to,’ Claire said against his chest. ‘There’s nothing wrong with crying.’

‘I thought I had done enough of it, there.’

‘I don’t think you’ve done enough of it since,’ she responded.

‘I think we were afraid to. No, I _know_ we were. When you have seen people scream themselves into insanity, it becomes another terror.’

‘I don’t know how you survived.’ She drew back. ‘How any of you did.’

‘Nor do I.’ He spoke the truth of it. ‘I just...did not want to die. I did not know what death was, and I did not want us to succumb to that horror, to end there, broken and filthy and used, lost and forgotten in the deeps of the world.’

‘Not forgotten,’ she protested. ‘Not _here_.’

‘Elves do not forget,’ he said. ‘Not spoken of, then.’ And even now, Finwë would not speak to him, looked at him with dislike and resentment as if he should never have returned. ‘Here, ‘ he handed her the coffee. Fumes of whiskey rose from the hot drink. She sipped it. ‘Thank you.’

He drank his own, felt it ease the clogging tightness in his throat. A sweep of tiredness came over him, caffeine notwithstanding, and he remembered how, after rape and torment, his body had needed sleep to heal, deep and dreamless. He recalled, also, the impossible weariness he had seen in Vanimórë’s eyes before his destruction and rebirth. Even gods needed a respite.

Claire put the coffee down and yawned, covering her mouth with one hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m just _so tired_ suddenly. It’s not you.’ She looked apologetic and embarrassed.

‘I know what it is,’ he said. ‘It is of the soul, the mind. I feel it too. And thou wert there in a sense, my dear. The only rest in Utumno was when I slept, and before I...changed, it was sporadic, filled with nightmares and dread of waking. I think thou knowest that feeling.’

She leaned against him. Another yawn took her. ‘I came to dread court days, but it was not like _that._ There’s no comparison.’

‘The dread is the same, Claire, the feeling, no matter what causes it.’  
He saw her eyelids droop and put an arm around her. ‘Let it come,’ he murmured. ‘You need it.’ He needed it too.

He drew the woollen throw from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her before sleep came down on them both.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Gothmog rumbled disapproval as Élernil was lead to Mairon’s chambers. ‘The Master should see him.’

‘And so he will, but I have a few observations to make, first,’ Mairon snapped over his shoulder. ‘And chambers must be prepared for this one. He is...rare. Go, give the orders.’

Élernil was left alone with Mairon. He was naked, having at some point struggled out of his leggings, or they had been torn from him by a wolf’s claws; he did not know.

What he _did_ know was that it was imperative he pretend that he was conquered, under the control of the Dark Gods. It might be of use. It seemed, now, that he was more clear-headed than at any time since before his capture. There was strength in his limbs, energy sliding through muscle and sinew. He felt he could wrestle a _Valarauka_ , swim Helcar, race the winds.

He could do none of these things, of course. His people were still imprisoned, still being tormented, still dying in agony. He would never leave this place, leave them, even if he could see any means of escape. And, at this time, he saw none.

Mairon walked around him, paused to take a sheaf of that white hair in his hand. Élernil forced himself not to move, to shut away the thought, the memory, the _feeling_ of the giant wolf raping him. Perspiration sprang along his hairline. He locked his muscles against sickness.  
‘Thou didst burn like white flame, Quendi,’ Mairon mused. ‘ _How._?’

‘I know not, Lord Mairon.’ His voice was steady, cool. He could not quite believe the calmness of the words.

‘And thine eyes.’ His own stared into them, tilting Élernil’s head this way and that. ‘They too have turned white, but not the brows or the lashes.’

Élernil kept his gaze unblinking, looked straight ahead. He had the impression Mairon would like to examine him to the very roots and veins within, but that this changing had set him apart, made him a rarity; one that must not be spoiled. At least without Melkor’s permission.

Mairon bent his head into the white hair, inhaled through his nose. ‘Thou doth smell of burning diamonds and the stars,’ he murmured. ‘What didst thou feel?’

He thought of the god striding among the stars, the one who had abandoned them to darkness and evil. _Why didst thou leave us to despair and corruption_? But for a moment, it had felt like that, walking among those blazing creations of the heavens, shedding his skin, _burning._  
‘That I...was...in in the heart of a star. My Lord.’

‘Hmm. But how wouldst thou know how that feels, Quendi?’ His eyes flicked over Élernil’s body. ‘No marks, no bruises, no filth, no injuries. One might say thou art born again.’ He steepled his fingers against his mouth, considering. ‘Unprecedented and unforeseen, but hoped for, one might say, and precisely what Lord Melkor wanted. I am not so sure, however, that _he_ was the catalyst for this. My thought is that he should use thee—‘ He smiled. ‘Put thee to work, I mean,’ he elaborated smoothly. ‘but we will have to see.’

 

 

 

 

Melkor’s fascination ran a different course: it was avaricious, gloating, triumphant, and it was clear to Élernil that he _did_ believe that he, with the application of his dark and titan sorcery had wrought this change. He examined Élernil thoroughly, setting a queasiness in his bones. His heart hammered, breath choking in his throat, terrified of further rape. And if it came he would endure it. He had to.

It did not happen, leaving him weak with shaky relief. Perhaps, at least for this time, Melkor also considered him too rare to damage.

He did not know what they spoke of, Mairon and Melkor, after they went aside and conversed, voiceless, only their bodies showing the back-and-forth of mental consultation, but Élernil was taken directly from the Throne Hall to chambers near Mairon’s. Compared to the pits, even to his original cell, it was luxurious. He was guarded, but there was a bed, a table, rich hangings, running water; furs covered the stone floor.

And after that, they did indeed put him to work.

He was taught to fight.

His instructors were the _Valaraukar_ , Nemrúshkeraz and Lungorthin. The former was the most Elf-like of the fire demons, with the same build and quickness. It was he who taught Élernil to use swords, and whips. Lungorthin, larger, though not of Gothmog’s bulk and heaviness, taught him to handle axes. No-one had to tutor him in the use of daggers, though he mourned the loss of his own.

Élernil had never considered, never even imagined, wanting to take the life from anyone or anything save when hunting for food, but these, _these_ he wanted to destroy. His cold and furious desire lead him into mistakes that were corrected again and again, often with Sauron watching, cool as lake-water. He collected injuries: sprains, cuts, bruises and watched them heal. Faster even then they had before. It hurt, to heal so swiftly. He dislocated his shoulder and pushed it back into its socket using the wall, hissing out the pain between his teeth as Sauron observed, brows faintly raised.

After the lessons ended, when he was returned to his chamber, he slept as he had not done since entering the Underworld; the unconsciousness of exhaustion. Howbeit, it was the healthiest and most natural slumber he had known in this place.

Sometimes, hovering on the borderlands, he thought he was somewhere else. He imagined he half-opened dreaming eyes and saw a different room, warm with firelight. He felt the gentle press of another body against his, their sleeping breaths, the brush of hair against his neck. From the lightness and curves of the body, the subtle, flowery perfume, his sleeping-companion was female. His arms were lightly curved around her, resting on soft wool; one of her hands lay on his breast. There was an almost-forgotten sensation of being completely relaxed, unafraid, even cared for. When he awoke to the reality of his room, sensed the weight of the rock above his head, saw that threatening red-black light, there was a wrench of disorientation, of loss.

Yet he was grateful to be able to sleep; it was the only time he did not think of those left in the pits. He had asked for news of them to no avail, and was left to imagine all the horrors they were enduring (dying from) but still he strained his mind toward them, pouring out his will, hoping that something of it would reach their souls.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

‘I have something for thee to see,’ Mairon told him, as he braided and coiled his hair (the strange whiteness still startled him). Élernil’s heart came up in his throat, but he followed without a word.

They did not go far along the passageway, into another chamber, two _Valaraukar_ guarding it.  
It was a similar room to his own, though bare of any comfort or sign of use.  
Inside it, naked and as white haired as Élernil, stood Amathon and Arassel.

Élernil’s knees almost gave way. He did not understand what he was seeing. How could they...how could...?

Their eyes snapped to his. Moonstone white now, with a... _wiped_ , hard look; as if they were feeling what he himself had felt, emerging from the fire. Their flesh was like snowfall, unmarked, clean, and the glassy-pale hair fell like a waterfall down their back, their hips, to their knees.

Élernil’s throat closed with tears; he fought against them and the need to embrace his companions, draw them against his heart and beg forgiveness, but Mairon was watching with that light, intrigued look. He forced the instinct down, warned them with his eyes _Silence, stillness_ , and saw the slightest flicker of acknowledgement.

‘They were thy companions, who followed thee here,’ Mairon said. ‘So what does this mean, Quendi?’

‘I know not, my Lord.’ That was the truth at least. What had they suffered to come to this?

There was a long silence. ‘I believe thou doth not know.’ Mairon broke it at last. ‘Well, we will have them clothed and then they may join thee in thy training.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

He could reach their minds now; he did not know why, but the connection was reborn as if their burning and his had forged a path through the black might of Melkor’s mind and will like a white-hot awl. But he could not be certain, even guess how much of their mind-speech these dark gods might overhear. He was careful not to be precise, moulding his feelings into mental words, sharper than ever he had before.

_We have to pretend we are enslaved._   
_We have to obey their orders._   
_We have to wait._

Wait. But for what?

From their own minds, he learned that in the pits more had died, still more were taken away and did not return. Alone, in that red-shot dark, his hands clenched at his side, and he fought against the compulsion to scream and held them in his mind.

The next was Culina, and he was witness.

When he was lead down to the pits, nausea rose in his throat and it was all he could do to walk calmly. It took every scintilla of strength not to recoil at what he saw, at the stench and the memories.

Eyes watched him, and some were self-aware enough to widen, to press close to the bars and even reach out their hands. Others were not, mere shapes huddled in corners, scratching the walls, rocking. It was beyond bearing. Every one of them had known the wind under the stars, the superb joy and beauty of _living_. How could this be, how could it come to pass; what had they done, in their ignorance to bring such a doom upon them? (Nothing, he thought, nothing. We were free, we were innocent, and in the Underworld innocence has been slaughtered. We were were there to be used).

Culina had been removed from her cell, set in the same cage Élernil had once occupied. She was chained, her rounding belly pressed against a torn and filthy shift, all she wore against the growth of this monstrous pregnancy. The exquisite embroidery about the neck (Míriel’s work) was tattered and dull; her hair hung in mud-coloured strings around her thighs, and her head was flung back, teeth bared. Rage beating dark-red wings in his blood, Élernil remembered running with her under the moon. They were laughing, honey-scented clovers blooming under their feet. She shed her clothes, still laughing, white limbs blessed by the numinous light, hair rippling behind her, until joy turned to exuberant lust and they eagerly exhausted one another as the moon sank in the west.

If he could have saved her by cutting out his own heart, he would have.

‘It attempts to abort the foetus,’ Mairon said precisely.

 _It._ Élernil had noted that since their changing, Mairon would refer to Amathon and Arassel not by name, but as _he_ , as if they had passed through some lethal rite and had somehow become people, or at least human.

 _Ai, Culina_.

Her neck straightened. She glared at him through the hanks of dirty hair, eyes bulging, red-veined.

_Culina. Ah, gods help her._

An explosion in his breast, like a bird of fire rushing free through his rib cage.

A sound built in her chest. Her body bent in upon itself, even as her eyes still locked with his. Blood trickled down her thighs.

Mairon made a sharp movement, then caught himself, watching.

She closed her eyes, the sound forcing itself up from the deeps of her tormented flesh and she _screamed._

The blood came faster; her face knotted in striving, sinews standing out on her neck like rope as she _pushed_. A groan of impossible effort rose again into a wail of agony that sawed through Élernil’s heart. She seemed engaged in a war with her own body, he thought, as his breath stopped in his throat and his mind held hers. Sweat streamed down her face, collected in the hollow of her throat, painting pale stripes through the accumulated filth. Her eyes were wide open and still fixed upon his. Her legs parted. She _pushed._ And _pushed_ , bearing down as a deep continuous moan ribboned from her throat onto the stinking air.

_Oh, Culina._   
_Oh, my dear._

And white fire bloomed like a starburst about her. It spread, crackling through her hair, burning away the dirt, flowing down her body, melting the shackles at her wrist in snapping sparks.

A slippery rush of blood, some deformed shape that slapped down on the floor of the cage, the sound vile, indescribable. And Culina burned white in the fire, staring at Élernil until her head sagged down upon her chest and she folded to her knees. The expression on her face was one of _triumph_.

 

 

 

 

He was permitted to see her later, and alone, which surprised him, but he guessed that Mairon needed to report this to his Master quickly. He had ordered the foetus to be taken to his chambers for examination and no doubt wished to attend to that, also. The _Valaraukar_ were left on guard and, before they could prevent it, Élernil shut the heavy door behind him.

Culina lay under clean furs, her snowy hair spread about her, bare arms laid on the coverlet. Her eyes stared at the ceiling. She did not move until he reached the bed, and then her eyes, white now, shifted to his, opaque, frost-cold.

 _What is happening to us_?

There was nothing he could say to her. He went down on one knee beside her, head bowed in shame and grief. He looked up as her hand touched his face.  
  
 _I am so sorry, my dear. But thou didst essay it._ And his heart saluted her courage, the indomitable will that had forced the spawn of rape from her body.  
  
She raised herself, the furs sliding down over the fresh-cleansed pallor of her skin. There was no stiffness in the movement, no pain, no smell of birth-blood. Her stomach was flat, and, with a look at her for permission, he touched it lightly with his fingertips, but felt nothing.  
  
But neither did she feel as she had before. There was a scoured brilliance to her soul like a gem taken and polished and then set in a crown of ice — a cold inflexibility, something not quite human, not wholly Quendi. And he did not believe her womb would ever quicken again.  
  
She leaned in toward him, then and he gathered her close, rocking her, smoothing the white fall of hair. Her arms went tight around him, the grip fierce as a lover’s, her face pressed against his neck, but no tears wet his skin, no sobs shook her flesh, and she did not speak.  
  
He never heard her speak again. And he never saw her weep.  
  
 _What is happening to us_?  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. ~ White Slayers ~

~ White Slayers ~

 

 

~ Culina was also trained to fight. There was demonstrably nothing wrong with her, Mairon observed coolly. (Her. Culina’s personhood had likewise been returned). Melkor examined her as he had done Élernil, Amathon and Arassel. When she returned from that trial with the same stony face, clearly untouched, Élernil loosed a long, quiet breath of relief. 

She had been an artist once. Now she became a vengeful fury in the training pits. The Valaraukar were joined by the huge Fell-wolves, by corrupted spirits. It did not matter to her. (To any of them). 

Neither was she the last of those who changed. After Culina, there was a spate of them, burning themselves into something Melkor came to call his White Slayers. He meant to use them, was training them to kill, but Élernil did not know where, or whom they were supposed to fight. Not their own people surely? Melkor did not need to take battle to then, he was enslaving them effortlessly. But who else was there? 

Ten of them, then twelve, then fifteen. Eighteen. Élernil was alarmed and bemused. He witnessed some, not all, of the transfigurations and it was the same each time: a starburst of white fire, stripping them, transforming them into something white and hard and cold. Outwardly at least. Only in the fighting pits did they unleash the passion that still dwelt beneath the ice, even if it was in rage. 

They began to fight as one, like dancers performing before the festal fires, their minds, their bodies, linked, moving as if they were part of one whole creation. And Mairon watched them, expressionless. 

Nineteen. The only similarity between them that Élernil could see was that he was closer to them than the others; they had been lovers or friends, often both. Not all were of his folk, and ten of them, now, were women. 

Twenty. 

The doors of the fighting pits, tall as a mountain pine, swung inward on massive hinges; into the chamber came a dark tide of....monsters. 

Élernil had wondered what had happened to those taken away, thinking that they were dead. And many of them had indeed died. 

These were the ones who had not. 

Faces and bodies were twisted, flesh a stony-grey or slate-black. Teeth erupted in from snarling, lipless mouths that drooled black strings of Fireblack, that potent drink that maddened. Hair grew in coarse straggles or was absent entirely. They walked with legs bowed, shoulders hunched, the reddish light reflecting in the pits of black eyes. Noses were smashed from their once-clean lines, or sliced off, leaving gaping holes. Their very bones seemed to have been twisted out of true; yet it was still just possible to see what they once had been, and even had it not been, Élernil felt it, a terrible kinship. He knew what they had been, and whom. 

They were armed with knives, swords, axes, maces, and they poured into the chamber on howls and yells of hunger and bloody violence. The sound was like rubble vomited from the mountains’ heart. 

There was hardly time to think. The Ithiledhil, on hearing the doors open, had turned as one, smooth as oil. Beside him, Élernil heard a faint sound as of a breath indrawn from Amathon, but what broke from his own throat, echoed by all the others save Culina (who did not speak) was a high, ululating scream that held nothing human. 

Hate roared a white path through his veins, burned in the confines of his skull like levin. He had brought them to this, all of them. Perhaps the Dark would have found them anyhow, but he had walked into it with Amathon and Arassel, and he knew that some at least of those who were captured had come searching for him. Thus the Dark turned its eyes upon them. They were nothing to it; experiments, things to be tormented and used to see how much they could endure before they broke, but he did not know why! 

And now...now, they were not Quendi anymore, but miscreatures, malformed, their radiant joy of life twisted into hate and a brutish violence that held no grace, no reason but was born out of what they had become, been forced into. It could not be borne and he would — could not — not suffer it. . 

There were perhaps forty of the creatures. Melkor’s so-called White Slayers tore into them like a lightning storm. Élernil did not remember killing, the motions of destruction, as he cut into them and through them, did not feel the whip and splash of black blood or the floor become treacherous under his feet. It was only when he turned near the doors, looking for something else to kill that he found there were none, that his compassions, masked from head to foot in blood, were all alive, eyes shining eerily white. His fingers stuck to the hilts of the daggers, gummed by drying blood. 

Mairon, standing in the doorway was watching them. His elegance had not escaped the carnage: black streaks patterned his robes, the pale hair. His arms were folded, visible fingers drumming a thoughtful tattoo. 

Élernil half-saw his people come into line beside him. As one they raised their weapons, saluting, and bowed their heads. 

Mairon acknowledged with the barest nod, before his eyes returned to the litter of corpses and his mouth pursed.  
‘Most impressive,’ he allowed. ‘Go now, and cleanse thyselves. The Master will want to see this.’ 

They filed out around him. Melkor did not often appear in the training pits; one assumed he had other ways of knowing what was happening in his realm, but if there was a chance of avoiding him, all to the good. All of them remembered the black violence of his rapes. Élernil could not comprehend the way his mind worked, only that it held a darkness and destruction that might devour the world, and all that was bright and beautiful, leaving nothing but a blasted wasteland. Mairon might peel the skin from one’s back while his victim screamed into the madness of agony, but he would take no particular pleasure in it, far too absorbed in what lay under the flayed skin. The screaming would probably annoy him, but Élernil doubted it would feed him, as it seemed to feed Melkor. Feed some ravenous emptiness, an unassuageable need. 

None of them spoke as they negotiated the passageways to their cells, but their minds gathered in a chorus of over-arcing hate, horror and sorrow. He would have gathered them against his breast if he could, but as they could not (dare not) show such a weakness of emotion, his mind touched them, offering comfort out of his own shock.  
Yet there was no regret. 

 

It was Mairon who came to him later, after what he had come to think of as the evening meal, which each of them took alone in their chambers. Élernil never knew who the dark, silent servants were: some kind of spirit, once, like the water-woman, now chained to the service of Melkor. They never spoke, went about their duties methodically. The food was nourishing enough; sometimes there was dried fruit or, more rarely, greenstuff, but generally it consisted of meats, stews, and flat bread. The potent, black drink had been withdrawn now that it had no effect. Mairon had ordered Élernil to drink it, not long after his changing and watched while it did —absolutely nothing. After which no more was given to them. 

‘The Master is pleased with thee,’ Mairon opened after Élernil had bowed. ‘He has plans and soon thou wilt be of use, but there is yet time.’ He moved slowly about the room, flame-red robes brushing the floor. ‘And I would like to give thee a little advice which, if thou art wise, thou wilt pass on to thy comrades.’  
He came to a halt before Élernil, who looked back at him silently.  
‘There is some kind of power in thee, Quendi, although I know not quite what it is, and it would be well for thee to use it, if thou — and thy comrades — wouldst avoid the Master’s attentions.’ 

Dread, never far below the surface in this place, uncoiled its grey tentacles in Élernil’s gut, but he said nothing. 

‘He is accustomed to taking what he wants, using it as he pleases, even if he breaks his toys, his experiments,’ Mairon continued softly, as if Élernil did not know that. ‘Thou art useful to him and he has plans, but thou art a distraction, far too beautiful. He may decide to take one of thee, or more, and ruin thee. It would be a waste.’  
‘I want thee to develop a glamour to, in essence, hide from his attentions. Thou canst not become invisible, but shadowed, something his eye slides away from.’ Suddenly he stepped forward, splayed his open hands each side of Élernil’s head, spoke into his mind, crisp precise: Like this... 

...Like a subtle blurring, a fading out as into mist, becoming something not worth letting one’s attention rest upon for long, to put aside for the now. 

Yes, excellent. Hard to glamour a beauty like thine, but a little will be enough. Our master had much to occupy his mind, after all. This will be useful to thee, I have no doubt. His teeth showed white, predatory, mocking. It would be a terrible shame if our Master were to think thou wert not his absolute, obedient slaves — would it not? 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

He drifted from sleep and, for a moment, was in his cell in Utumno, the black rock breathing the red of Melkor’s mind. There was the plunge, the dread that each and every awakening brought — and then the walls washed pale, mouldings traced the ceiling. There was warmth, the scent of a perfume like honeysuckle, like the first long-awaited dawn of summer, the press of a body against his. 

Claire. 

He thought the drum of his heartbeat might wake her, so strong was the bounding relief of waking here, not Ages ago, in the first Hells. Slowly, he breathed himself back to calmness, one hand on Claire’s hair. 

The wind had lessened, only the occasional faltering gust swept around the Manse. Very gently, not wanting to wake Claire, he shifted, settling her to lay on the sofa, tucking the throw around her. Stooping, he kissed her brow very gently.  
Rest a while longer, my dear. I will make us some tea. 

She stirred a little, but did not wake, burrowing her cheek into the cushion. He looked at her sadly, and with a pride that burned his eyes, then stretched, went to the drowsing fire and added wood. Once the flames had caught, he replaced the fireguard and padded down the dark hall toward the kitchen. Turning on his heel suddenly, he slipped up the stairs, aware of the consciousness of Aelios and Maglor, neither asleep, but waiting, giving he and Claire time. 

His bedroom was dark, warm. He opened a drawer and drew out his knives, turning the bundle in his hands, still astonished that they should have been saved out of the desolation of his first life. Ah, Maglor, my dear. Not made for him nevertheless, in some undefinable way, they were his. He would carry them for the Élernil who had died fighting the Valar in the dark of Utumno. 

In the kitchen, he boiled the kettle, set some strong breakfast tea to brew. The clock read 5.30 a.m. but it would be some hours before light came here in the dark and wintry north. Softly, he opened the back door, the door scraping back drifting snow and looked out. 

The air was icy and above the sky blazed white with stars. He took a few steps out, turned his head up to the pour of light, feeling it sink into his eyes, his skin. He remembered the shock and relief of seeing the stars after leaving Utumno. One could think, there, that all the stars had been blotted by the Dark. 

The force of the wind had driven the snow into deep drifts against the walls and hedges, swept the back yard almost clear. The snow glittered back at the stars, a million powdered diamonds. His breath plumed up, misted away. 

Stepping back into the kitchen, he closed the door on the night, poured the tea and set porridge on the Aga. He heard the minute creak of the kitchen door, smelled her scent before he felt her put her arms around him, and lowered one hand to grip hers. 

‘Tea?’ 

‘Please, yes.’ 

He poured and added two generous sugars, flicked on the lamp. It cast a comfortingly warm glow through the room. Hanging copper pans shone, reflecting onto the warm disorder of Claire’s hair. 

She cradled the cup in her hands as she drank. He examined her face, but saw no weariness, only a tiny frown that etched the smooth skin between her brows. Her eyes came up and met his.  
‘I dreamed it with you,’ she said. 

‘I know.’ 

‘Don’t say you’re sorry.’ 

‘I was going to say that I should be,’ he said. ‘But thou canst encompass it.’ She lifted a finger, smiling a warning, and he corrected himself. ‘You can encompass it, and have. I do not know how, but your heart and soul is deep enough for it, and that, Claire, fills me with awe.’ 

She gave an endearing little shrug. ‘I’m not anything special, Edenel. You can call it empathy or compassion or sympathy if you like. It’s not uncommon.’ 

‘Is it not? And yet, I have felt, in this world, that it is becoming more so, and is unbelievably precious where it is found. Something to be cherished. And you are special.’ He touched her hair. ‘Do not undervalue yourself. Maglor saw it. Coldagnir and I see it. Vanimórë saw it, also.’ 

She traced a pattern on the tablecloth with one finger, her cheek tinting with a blush. ‘I’m glad I could help you.’ 

‘Help is not the word. I did not realise that I needed to retell this, that it had sat within me like a growth, like a black stone.’ He took a breath. ‘And I do not know why I could not tell it to anyone else. I think the Ithiledhil would feel as I do now if they could speak, not remain mute as we have done all these Ages. I shall tell them, when I return.’ 

‘When?’ She turned to bring him into full view. ‘When will you go?’ 

‘I do not know. It is something we will feel.’ He stopped. ‘I want to meet Melkor in battle. But—‘ 

Claire watched him, reached out a hand. ‘But?’ 

‘I do not want to leave you and Maglor,’ he said slowly, admitting what he had known for some time now. ‘Neither Coldagnir nor I want to. It seemed simple enough before we came. Do something, help if we could, and leave. But now...’ He covered his face with both hands. ‘Is it not strange? We are not from this world and to me it is a strange, cold place. The Elves have faded into the dusk or sailed West long ago, so many people, who all seem so far apart from one another. Yet we have both discovered that does not matter in the least when one is with others they care for. And it is not because we do not have people we love there. We do. But it seems there is always more room in the heart.’ 

He heard her swallow. ‘I suppose it was naive to think you could stay forever, but — could you come back, after?’ 

He lowered his hands, closed his fingers about hers. ‘We will. I am sure I speak for us both. Yes.’ He attempted a smile, said more firmly: ‘Yes. It is not the end of the world, Claire.’ 

‘Dagor Dagorath.’ The words rolled over her tongue with Maglor’s inflexion, an Elvish lilt. ‘What is it then? It sounds so— so final.’ 

‘The end of Melkor, so we hope.’ He paused, not sure how much to tell her of what had happened. What Vanimöré was, what Fëanor was. What Maglor himself was there. Here. 

‘I read a prophecy of it,’ Claire said, ‘in the History of Middle-earth volumes: that Fëanor would break the Silmarils. Wait a minute.’ She rose and went out, coming back with a book marked with colourful post-it notes. ‘Here. Maglor,’ she added, ‘hates this piece. We only spoke of it once. You see, he believes that if Fëanor breaks the Silmarils then it will destroy him, that he will be a kind of sacrifice for this rebirth, and everything they did, all the grief, the war, the suffering, the death, the Doom, the Oath, will have been for nothing anyhow, because it comes back to Fëanor bowing to the Valar and breaking his own creations for them.’ She cleared her throat and read: Then Fëanor shall take the Three Jewels and bear them to Yavanna Palúrien; and she will break them and with their fire rekindle the Two Trees, and a great light shall come forth. And the Mountains of Valinor shall be levelled, so that the Light shall go out over all the world. In that light the Gods will grow young again, and the Elves awake and all their dead arise, and the purpose of Ilúvatar be fulfilled concerning them. But to Men in that day the prophecy of Mandos doth not speak, and no Man it names, save Túrin only, and to him a place is given among the sons of the Valar.’ 

‘It cannot happen, Claire,’ Edenel said firmly. ‘Fëanor is the Silmarils and they are part of his soul, at least where I come from, and I cannot imagine it being so very different here. He would never bow to the Valar. Why in the Hells should he? What did they ever do for him and those he loved save doom them?’ 

Something sparked deep in the grey eyes, like a great cat awakening from its sleep before the hunt. His breath caught.  
‘I always thought,’ she said, ‘that there was more to the Silmarils than created jewels, no matter how wonderful.’ 

He nodded. ‘The Valar knew it too, which was why they wanted him to break them to restore life to the Two Trees. They knew it would kill him, at least Manwë did, and Námo. And it most certainly cannot happen in the Dagor Dagorath — or after it.’ He rose to stir the porridge and serve it. They ate in silence for a while, Claire’s hand still holding the book open. When she had finished, drunk more tea, she slammed it shut abruptly as if locking the words away. ‘How do you know? What makes you so sure?’ 

She was, he thought, thinking of Maglor. ‘Because Fëanor is far more than an Elf. We all are now, but he most of all. And the Silmarils have been reunited with him, not as gems, but as energy. I witnessed it. We all did.’ 

Claire stared at him. ‘But that is in another reality.’ 

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But the events, the story is similar here; there are so many parallels.’ He took the plates and cups to the sink, washed and set them on the draining board. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Vanimórë showed us everything we needed to know about this world before we came, and that was one of those things: how close the two realities were. It does not align exactly, no reality does, but near. Near.’ 

She put the kettle on to boil again. ‘I just want Maglor to have hope.’ 

‘Bless you for that.‘ Edenel turned, leaned back against the sink. ‘Do you not see that you have given him hope?’ 

‘Have I? I’m not even sure how to begin to help him...find the Silmaril, any of it!’ 

‘His fire slumbered like that fire in the living room when we do not keep it fed with wood. His fuel was hope and there was none. What you have given him has shown him that even for one lost, doomed and damned, there can be love and care and yes, hope.’ 

Her cheeks mantled pink. ‘He has some things, found or acquired over the years, held like a talisman against despair. Almost, as if he needs them to validate that it was real, that he is not mad. I think they were his hope.’ 

‘That is exactly what he has been doing,’ Edenel agreed. ‘But no artefact, except perhaps the Silmaril which burns with his father’s soul-fire, can give a tenth as much hope as a living heart, a companion who can encourage us and argue and push us and help lift us up when we stumble.’ Claire’s eyes filled with tears. They were not, he thought, for herself. He moved, put an arm around her shoulders.  
‘I never thought there was hope either, for a long time, as you know, but there are forces that move here beyond our knowledge.’ And not all of them, in fact none of them, were benign (because one could not call the Flame Imperishable or the Great Song anything but Power, and no power is benign). 

‘Beyond your knowledge?’ 

‘I never looked into the future,’ he said wryly. ‘Because it changes whenever we choose one path over another, whenever we make any decision, even if in the smallest of ways. I do not think that, for instance, choosing to have tea or coffee now would create any vast difference in this reality, but some decisions, yes: like deciding to cross a road when we might not have—‘ 

‘And getting killed by a truck,’ Claire finished for him. ‘Yes, I see that.’ 

‘Do you want to go to bed, rest a while longer?’ he asked. ‘We can easily continue this later.’ 

She set four cups on the table. ‘I’m not tired,’ she said. ‘But I think...you know what I really want, right now?’ 

‘A bath,’ he said, smiling as her head turned, eyes wide. ‘Or a shower. I know. You feel you can still smell it, Utumno.’ 

‘Yes.’ She moved the cups around as if her hands needed occupation. ‘Although I could smell you too and it wasn’t offensive. It was like...like cold gems, burning, if that makes any sense. Starlight on frost.’ 

He said, ‘And when I dreamed I woke I was comforted by your own scent. It was like the blooming of summer after an endless winter.’ 

A little smile flashed and faded. ‘Last night, I felt, sometimes as if I almost woke up from that...horror, and was in the lounge, with you holding me.’ She shivered lightly. ‘Then I would go back there. Wake up there. I have to remind myself that it’s not, well...technically real. That I’m here.’ 

‘Yes, it was — is — the same for me.’ They shared a long look that needed no words, like survivors of a disaster. ‘Part of it is real,’ he said slowly. ‘What we talked of before, of how you had changed something by being with me, holding on to me. Part of you is there still. And I want to take you out of there with me, to see the stars again. Gods, that was so beautiful, Claire. I want you to experience it after the horror. But now, of course, go, wash, change, make yourself feel normal.’ 

She snorted. ‘Normal.’ And then they laughed together, but it was a laughter that could too easily become tears. He folded her in his arms and they held one another’s close as lovers, tight as climbers about to fall off a mountain ledge. 

‘I was going to talk to Maglor,’ she said into his chest. ‘Or would you prefer I didn’t?’ 

‘No, Claire. It’s hardly a secret, and he will be concerned. Our emotions were intense, they would spill over. Especially to Maglor. He is linked to both of us.’ He moved back, traced a hand down her face. ‘Just a moment. There is something—‘ He went to the sideboard where he had set the knives and brought them across to her, presenting her with one of the hilts. She looked up at him questioningly and, when he gave a slight nod, wrapped her fingers around the hilt and pulled. It came out easily, in one lethal glide, the lamplight coiling over the damascene metal, the shapes of flowing water, of wind-blown mist, of ice... 

‘Maglor was no fool for treasuring things from the past,’ he said softly. ‘I wished I had these in Utumno, though they would have availed me nothing.’ Light slashed like a shooting star along the edge of the blade as Claire carefully turned it, her face watchful, respectful of the danger inherent in the blade. ‘Finwë made these for me, or rather for the Élernil who died, but they are an exact copy of the knives he made for me in my world. There, they were lost; here Maglor has carried them for Age upon Age. And this is another indication that our two worlds are not so different.’ 

‘Yes...’ She frowned, eyes on the knife. ‘It...’ And she tilted her head to one side. ‘It feels like an arrow waiting to strike.’ 

He stared at her. It was said that great weaponsmiths such as Fëanor or Celebrimbor could feel the spirit of the weapons they made. It was so with Tindómion’s blade ‘Gurthdur’ which his cousin had forged for him.  
‘I do not know the history of these blades in this world,’ he said, ‘And Maglor has tended them, rebound them, but not, I think, used them. Finwë made them after the first warnings of a darkness in the north.’ Her eyes flicked up for a moment. ‘When we began to consider more than wearing hides and cloth and furs, of using knife or spear or bow to hunt with. Sometimes I heard him humming Songs of Making over these as he worked, although he would not tell me what he was making. I killed Fell-wolves with it — you saw that — but no orcs, no dark Maia, no Nazgûl.’ Her down-bent head nodded. ‘I feel these have waited long to drink the blood of the Dark.’ 

Again, that bright upward look. The knife turned, flashing, gleaming. She looked down, then, concentrated on sliding it back into its housing.  
‘It’s quite heavy,’ she said. ‘But I think I see what people mean when they say a weapon is balanced. It’s not...difficult to hold, exactly.’ 

‘Your wrists will become accustomed to the weight, and there are exercises that can help.’ He turned the sheathed knife, laid it flat across his palms, then went down on one knee, bowing his head as a warrior offers his blade to the service of his King.  
Please accept this, Claire. I cannot adequately repay thee for coming with me into the Darkness in the deeps of Time. These blades were made with love, when love still was, and to drink of the blood of Darkness. And I know it will serve thee well.’ 

 

OooOooO


	12. ~ Fire in the Snow ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ‘interlude’ chapter where Maglor, Claire, Edenel and Coldagnir spend a not-quite-normal day in the Manse.

  
  
  
  


**~ Fire in the Snow ~**

 

 

~ Dawn came clear and sharp as a sword; its blade struck diamond sparks from a white world.  
  
In the parlour, Edenel pushed the sofa and chairs back against the walls leaving an expanse of rug bare. The door opened quietly behind him, and he glanced around, into Maglor’s eyes. They looked at one another in silence, Edenel half-expecting some anger on Claire’s behalf, at what she had endured — met and matched — last night.  
  
‘I understand why you did it.’ Maglor broke it with a soft smile. He closed the door behind him. ‘The gift.’  
  
‘I wondered if, after carrying them for so long, thou wouldst think it...impolite of me. It is not that at all.’  
  
‘No. She has told me of what thou art doing — reliving — together. Why. And I felt her emotions, and thine.’ Maglor came toward him, cupped his face in both hands. ‘It is terrible for the both of thee. There are no words to encompass it. None. Yet thou art bearing it. And so is Claire.’  
  
‘I do not think it is that simple,’ Edenel said softly. ‘In some way, she is carrying it, more, surmounting it. In some way, Maglor, she is _there._ ’ He rested their brows together for a moment. ‘I do not know how it is possible, and I would never have begun this if I had known what would happen. There are things no-one should see, be they never so brave. And yet...yes, she is bearing it.’  
  
‘Nothing is simple,’ Maglor murmured. ‘We have been speaking of it. And she will see it through, she has told me.’

‘I know she will. I knew when she told me we would go into it together.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I thank thee.’  
  
‘What for? The knives?’  
  
‘For those. For remembrance. For acceptance.’ He was so far from what Maglor truly wanted: his father, his brothers, uncle, cousins. Edenel knew that, and would have accepted death in a heartbeat if it could give them back.  
  
Maglor’s breath hitched, turned uneven. ‘Thou art very like him.’ A quiver ran through his body. ‘Despite the hair, thine eyes. Unnervingly so, at times. I can look at thee and see him, see my brothers, Fingolfin, Fingon...’  
  
‘And so art thou like them,’ Edenel whispered. ‘Gold and silver-steel. Imperishable. But I am not enough. How could I ever be? Yet here and now I wow to thee, Macalaurë, that though all the powers of the Valar stand between, we _shall_ deliver them.’  
  
Maglor stepped back quickly. The room seemed to settle into a waiting silence around them, the walls themselves a witness, listening.  
‘Thou knowest the weight of vows upon our blood.’  
  
‘Yes, my dear. And still.’ Edenel laid a hand on Maglor’s heart. ‘We have shared our blood. And I am with thee, until the dead walk among us again.’  
  
Maglor stared at him. ‘Thine eyes. There is such fire in them. As there was in my father’s eyes. _Starflame_. That was what they called thee once, was it not, Claire said. Élernil Starflame.’  
  
‘Once, yes.’

‘I want to believe thee.’  
  
‘Ah my dear, _believe_. But not just me. Believe that there are powers ranged against the Valar that they would flee before.’ _And one of them thine own father, when he realises what he is._  
  
‘To have hope, after so long is...painful.’ Maglor lifted one hand to show the terrible geometrical burn that had melted the skin. Edenel laid his fingers on it. ‘This wakes me at whiles,’ Maglor said. ‘The pain of it.’  
  
‘The Silmaril calls to the blood of the Maker.’  
  
Maglor raised his head, unerringly turned it west toward the ocean as if he could see it through the stone walls of the Manse, through the mountains.  
  
‘Accept it, Singer of the Song. It is the blood and soul within thee.’ Edenel raised turned Maglor’s head back to face him. ‘Thou didst hate it for the ruin it brought upon thee, no? Hated it and loved it. It was the millstone about thy neck, an Oath spoken in grief and madness — and the only part of thy father’s soul that thou couldst touch beyond his death.’ Maglor’s face flashed like lightning with emotion: _Sorrowfurygrief_. ‘But thou knowest it was not the Silmaril, but the Doom which brought death and ruin down on thee. Who did more than the Fëanorions to fence the North against Melkor? No great cities of peace and culture, but fortresses built to leaguer Angband, swords and spears and wills of steel. Embrace thy heritage Maglor, Macalaurë. Call the Silmaril to thee. Accept it as a part of thy father — still burning. And it will come. It will never serve another — though not only Sauron would seek to use its powers for evil — but it will serve — and aid — thee.’  
  
Maglor’s eyes were incandescent, a shock of silver brilliance that made the room itself seem nebulous. The air seemed to shimmer around him and Edenel felt the unfurling within him of a mighty will, of power he did not even know he had — or had forgotten in unnumbered years of sorrow. ‘  
Thou knowest this, how?’  
  
‘I know it. I have lived in another world. Yet not so different.’  
  
‘And yet, Claire has said thou wilt leave.’  
  
‘Not for long,’ Edenel promised. ‘Did she tell thee that Coldagnir and I do not wish to leave? Did we not say that nothing is simple? And love, least of all.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

Edenel had noted, that morning, when Coldagnir came down to the kitchen, that Claire could not help looking at him. Of course, after being within his memories of Utumno, she would be trying to connect the Aelios of _now_ with the Balrog of _then_. How he had looked. What he had done. There was no disgust in her eyes, no fear or hate, just a deep thoughtfulness. Working things through in her mind.

Coldagnir said nothing, but gave her a difficult smile and, hooding his bright hair, went outside. Claire bit her lip and looked after him. Edenel touched her arm with a smile. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Let’s do this.’

 

 

‘Knife fighting is all about movement,’ Edenel said. ‘But first, just practice rolling the knife, to toss it from one hand to another. Become used to it. The weight will be nothing after a while, once you are accustomed. You need to feel it as if it is an extension of your hand, even as a swordsman is at one with his sword.’

‘We have been practicing,’ Maglor said, ‘earlier.’

Good,’ Edenel nodded. ‘First, keep the dagger close, between the shoulders, between the neck and waist, don’t wave it around. When you keep it that close, you are not broadcasting where you are aiming for. Keep your free arm, up like this.’ ‘To afford some protection to your head, your neck and ribs. And imagine that you’re standing on the points of a triangle.’ He traced it out with one foot. ‘Moving from one point to another, keeping in motion, but keeping close, coming in at angles. Try not to step out of it unless an opportunity arises that makes it necessary. Maglor,’ He tossed the blade, and Maglor caught it. ‘And remember it’s not all about strength. If you can get behind someone—‘ He turned, and Maglor strode forward, seized his hair, bent him back, and set the knife in the small of his back. ‘This reduces them. Only a madman would risk that knife pushing home.’

‘But some _will_ be mad,’ Maglor intervened, hand still clenched in Edenel’s hair. ‘It might be drugs, or fanaticism, but some will struggle, and when that happens, you do push home, Claire. If it is you or them. If they have attacked you, and intend to kill you.’ He released his hold, and Edenel straightened.

Claire, paused in the practice of flipping the dagger from one hand to another, nodded gravely. ‘I know,’ she said, probably remembering Thuringwethil. Edenel smiled at her. She would, if she had to. Her eyes reminded him of Culina’s, soft and grey, iron at the back of them like a welded wall.

Knives were not the only subject they touched on that morning. Maglor would arrange to take Claire to a shooting range, since odd gun shots would be noted, even here. But they could teach her unarmed combat. How to fight, to escape from a hold, to disarm someone larger and heavier than herself.

They stopped for lunch at 1 o clock, and Claire went for another shower; the lessons had been intense, and hard.

‘That went very well,’ Edenel said to Maglor. ‘She picks things up quickly.’

‘Part of me sorrows to see her innocence die,’ Maglor said thoughtfully. ‘But I do understand her wish to learn, and how can we know she will not need these skills. My feeling is that she will. And I was not with her, none of us were, when she fought Thuringwethil.’

‘Vanimorë _was_ there, and let her get on with it,’ Edenel said, with a faint smile. ‘Yes, he was engaging Thuringwethil’s attention, but how many people would have run away or sat frozen? And no blame to them. But Claire did not. And that moment of action or inaction can mean life or death.’

‘Yes, it can.’ The answering smile was one of pride. ‘And yes, she acted. I wish I had seen it. Thuringwethil was pure poison.’ The smile dropped away; hate glinted in his eyes.

‘I know.’

Not wanting Claire to grow stale, they went outside after lunch, their breath s sending plumes of vapour into the crystalline air. Coldagnir, who had been quiet during the meal, joined them, walking with hands in pockets. The loch was the colour of hammered sapphire. Their feet sank into crisp snow as they walked past the village houses whose fires sent up calm spirals of grey smoke. The store and pub were both open, and they paused in the latter for coffee in front of a roaring fire. There were a few locals chatting over beer or whiskey, a couple of hikers discussing the weather, a raw-faced women in boots and woolly hat, talking to the owner at the bar. Her glance ran across them once and she nodded a greeting. A few moments later, opining that there was milder weather coming, she stumped out of the door. Edenel, his senses flung wide to feel anything amiss, relaxed when he found nothing but ordinary people.

They carried milk and fresh bread back to the Manse, and Edenel showed Claire the sacred spring in the grounds. It flowed from a crack under the ancient boundary wall into a small pool. At some time in the past, someone had enclosed it with cut stone, now old and mossy. Claire leaned over to peer in.  
‘There are coins in the bottom,’ she exclaimed. ‘Like a wishing well.’ She looked up, her cheeks flushed red with the cold. ‘It makes me think...of that water Maia who warned you about Mel—‘

He laid a finger over her lips, gently. ‘Do not say the name, my dear.’ He shrugged apologetically as her grey eyes widened. ‘The Manse is a warded place, it is safe enough within those walls, but let us not take risks.’

‘Of course,’ she said, low-voiced, and tutted. ‘I should have thought.’

‘I believe that here he is still in the Void, but not all those who served him are. Names have power. And this is a place of ancient power. A liminal place.’ He traced the surface of the water with one finger. ‘And yes, that Maia...I did not see her again. I hope she was never captured., but some were bound to their place of their existence: Trees, spring, rocks. Thus they could not run. Even those who could, like Eönwë, did not always evade enslavement. This spring has been sacred time out of mind. Even now, it seems people do not forget the old gods of the high places, the secret waters. This is very...porous land, Claire. It lets the past through, almost bleeds it. And absorbs the present. You feel it, do you not?’  
  
‘Oh yes,’ she murmured. ‘Even before...I felt it. St. Andrews...there were places there — all of it really, it’s an old town — I used to think it was my imagination, fancy, but...’ She stripped off a glove, felt in her coat pocket and drew out a pound coin, which she dropped into the spring.  
  
‘Not completely,’ he said, ‘in fact not at all, there was always something in thee, Maglor thinks —‘  
  
His breath was driven out of him by the shock of icy cold as a snowball hit him accurately on the back of the neck. It began to melt, sliding down between hair and coat, and he turned, gasping.  
  
‘Cold?’ Coldagnir asked sweetly.  
  
Suddenly, it reminded Edenel of Cuiviénen, of the first snowfall, when the _Quendi_ were young and looked on it with awe and delight, playing in the snow, delighting in it. There were no children then, yet they had acted as if they were, with the same innocent wonder. The memory, the memory of that feeling of freedom was startling, infectious. And it was so, so... _unlikely_ , the Solar god making snowballs. Edenel scooped snow into his hands, packed it tight, and smiled at Claire. Her eyes danced. She was pulling her glove back on, and shaped a snowball in her gloved hands. They struck Coldagnir with a concentrated barrage — and Maglor by accident.  
  
He had forgotten how to play. Something so simple, so beautiful, and he had forgotten it. Running, lobbing snowballs, receiving one full in the face, spluttering through ice-chips, watching Maglor and Claire roll over in it, laughing, Coldagnir’s hat knocked off, fiery hair streaming. Being tackled and brought down, until they were all laughing too hard to get up, just laying flat on their backs in the snow. Edenel laughed so hard tears blurred his eyes. Eventually, they got up, brushing themselves down. Maglor slung an arm around him and Claire, drew them toward the door. Looking back, Edenel saw Coldagnir standing, melting snow in his bare hands, vapour rising from his body. Their eyes met and the effervescent humour subsided. Edenel frowned, lifted a brow.  
  
 _Not yet._  
  
Coldagnir and Edenel began cooking dinner, while Claire and Maglor talked in the lounge. The light began to fade. Taking biodegradable waste out to the composter, Edenel lifted his face to the gleaming sky. One early star glinted directly above. The night would be clear, frosty, the stars brilliant, but there was a thaw coming.  
  
‘Odd, is it not,’ Coldagnir said behind him. ‘How similar the stars are here. How similar many things are.’  
  
‘Yes, I often think about that. You can see the stars already?’  
  
‘I can see them, yes.’ The beautiful face was grave.  
  
‘Aelios, what is the matter?’  
  
‘Nothing for you to worry about. But I would rather tell you all together. Come.’  
  
Edenel searched his face, touched it. ‘Hot,’ he murmured. ‘And the snow was melting in your hands, around you...You’re giving off a great deal of heat, Coldagnir.’  
  
‘I have been here too long.’

‘What?’  
  
‘There is something I have to do,’ Coldagnir said quietly. ‘But it will not take long.’  
  
They laid out the table. Maglor and Claire came in to choose a wine, all of them comfortable with each other; though still that tension threading like a live wire between Maglor and Coldagnir. How could it be otherwise?  
  
Coldagnir shifted as if he felt that thought, looked up.  
‘Now that we are all here,’ he said. ‘I should tell you there is something I have to attend to.’  
  
Maglor’s eyes narrowed, intent on his face. Edenel saw the infinitesimal priming of his body for combat. ‘Yes?’  
  
‘Yes.’ Coldagnir rose, pulled down the blinds and switched off the lamp. It was not yet dark outside, but under the shadow of the mountains, the huge darkness of the yew tree, the room was dim. Except for...  
  
There was a sharp inhale.  
  
‘You’re _luminous_ ,’ Claire breathed. Then: ‘Oh, _my god_!’ She slapped a hand on the table. ‘I’m stupid. And I roomed with a physicist.’  
  
Maglor almost kicked the chair out from under him, rattling the cutlery.  
‘The Sun,’ he said in a flat tone at variance to the blaze of his eyes. ‘Radiation.’  
  
‘It’s not dangerous to you,’ Coldagnir said quickly. ‘I can contain it, but yes. It is what I _am_ after all. And at some point, it begins to show.’  
  
‘The snowballs you threw were melting.’ Claire had noticed that too. ‘I thought the thaw was coming, but...’  
  
‘How much are you holding in?’ Maglor demanded, moving closer to Claire as if his body could protect her from lethal, invisible rays.  
  
Coldagnir’s mouth quirked. ‘Probably enough to render Scotland and the north of England uninhabitable for fifty thousand years. But I _am_ containing it. A Geiger counter would hardly register anything. Trust me, Maglor. I am very familiar with what I am — and how to restrain what I am.’  
  
Maglor was as still tense as a harp string. Claire reached out to touch his shoulder. ‘How will you er...dump it?’ she asked.  
  
‘Go back to the Sun. It — _I_ would not even notice the amount.’  
  
‘What happened when you were asleep under the Orocarni?’ Edenel wondered. ‘That was far longer than a few months.’  
  
Coldagnir’s head turned to him. ‘There are only two persons, beings, with more power than I, Edenel. When I went into Utumno, Eru...siphoned off, I suppose one might say, a great deal of what I was. Enough for me to enact the part of a lesser fire, a Balrog. It was as if there was always a barrier between myself and _myself_ , and I was in deep shade, cut off from the source. Once I awake and was freed, and out in the daylight, the power began to return. Vanimórë even told me to go to the sun. He knew.’ His head shook. ‘He knew. It was enough so that I could subsume Gothmog’s soul, but until I died and returned to the Timeless Halls, I did not become my true self. This is,’ he added, ‘the longest I have spent without releasing it. It is quite safe, but sooner or later I am going to start affecting electrical equipment, that microwave, phones, small things at first. And as you have noticed, I am self-radiant in the dark.’  
  
‘So go,’ Maglor said, then quickly, ‘No, wait. This place is safe enough, but there may be watchers. That episode in Venice was bad enough.’  
  
‘Yes, I have thought of that,’ Coldagnir nodded. ‘But the north-west of Scotland is rather less crowded. I have been out, observing, listening, and there is nothing. No watchers. And I have noted the Sun. There is very little cloud this evening, and in a few minutes, the last rays will shine down this glen from the West. Quite blinding. If I time it right, anything that anyone might see will be thought of as an optical illusion or a sun flare.’  
  
They went out into the back garden, trod down the drive onto the road. A few four wheel drives and a tractor marked the snow; grit had melted a few patches down to the tarmac. It was very still, very quiet.  
  
‘There is no-one around,’ Maglor said after surveying the surrounding land, the white strip of the road. The village sat peacefully, waiting for dusk. Coldagnir stepped forward.  
  
Where the mountains drew apart and the loch bent toward the sea firth, the sun was setting behind one long strip of cloud. Maglor put his arm around Claire as she stamped her feet against the deepening chill.  
  
‘I shall not be long,’ Coldagnir said, turning to look at them. ‘In time for dinner.’ He flashed a smile.  
  
There was a moment of absolute hush and then the lower limb of the sun appeared below the cloud bank. Edenel had an odd sensation that it recognised Coldagnir, that its immense internal furnaces turned themselves _up_ in salutation. A brilliant gold light stabbed down the glen.  
  
Coldagnir became pure flame. Enormous triple wings exploded, scattering particles of fire, and then, like a bullet shot from a high powered rifle, and with a _crack_ of displaced air, he sped along the line of the fireglow. A firebird aimed straight at the heart of the sun. The waters of the lock parted in his wake, churning white foam, boiling steam.  
  
For a long moment, they stood there. Edenel almost expected to see the sun detonate, wondered if there would be an explosion registered on instruments that monitored flares and sunspots. Could almost see the moment Coldagnir struck its surface. He felt, in the deep of winter, heat on his face.  
  
He looked around, but nothing stirred, no-one came from their houses, looking for the source of that sound. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll finish the dinner.’  
  
‘Do you think he will return?’ Maglor asked as they walked back to the Manse.  
  
Edenel nodded. ‘I know you have reservations, Maglor, but you can trust him, and yes, he will come back.’  
  
‘I can’t believe I never even thought about what he is,’ Claire said as they closed the door on the evening. ‘Rosie would lecture me.’  
  
‘I didn’t either,’ Maglor admitted.  
  
‘A hell of a saving on fuel though,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘If we could harness him.’  
  
Maglor stared at her, dropped his head in his hands and choked, then looked up and burst into his wonderful, rich, full-throated laughter. Edenel, unable to hold it any longer, joined in, leaning against the sink. It was a timely release of tension. Claire staggered, and sat down.  
  
‘Thank you,’ Maglor kissed the top of her head. ‘I needed that.’  
  
‘It was incredibly disrespectful.’ But she giggled. ‘Don’t tell him I said it.’  
  
‘You _have_ harnessed the Sun God,’ Edenel told them, going to the Aga to stir the pasta sauce. ‘Both of you, although I know you do not realise it. Duty has bonds, even hate has bonds, but love...’ He looked back at them both. ‘Love is the greatest binding of them all.’  
  
Maglor paused in uncorking the wine. ‘Is that the reason you think he will return?’  
  
‘He knows what you see, think of, every time you look at him,’ Edenel said gently. ‘And that is making him remember it, too. The horror, the hate, the destruction of his soul, the violence and death he was a party to, that he dealt out. He cannot undo what he has done, but he seeks to show that he will make recompense, to you personally, this Maglor, in this reality, as he did in the one we come from. He has bound himself to the service of the House of Fëanor, perhaps in _every_ universe. And Claire,’ he smiled at her, ‘he simply loves.’ Her cheeks pinked; she dipped her head.  
  
There was a silence, then Maglor said, though his eyes had lost their hardness, were thoughtful as he looked at Claire’s bent head. ‘I still think we ought to buy a Geiger reader.’ Claire bubbled up again.  
  
Edenel laughed, too, but sobered quickly. ‘He would never hurt either of thee, neither by act nor omission.’  
  
‘I trust _you_ ,’ Maglor said on a sigh, moving to grip Edenel’s arm. ‘And I trust your knowledge of him, but...just give me time.’  
  
‘I know, Maglor, and I understand. So does he.’  
  
Claire stirred. ‘I know less of him than either of you,’ she said seriously. ‘But after Venice — what he told me, and what he _did_ to get us out of there.’ She swung to face Maglor. ‘I know he could do it without much harm, to himself, but it did hurt him nevertheless and that...forced healing was _agonising_.’ She gulped. ‘And I don’t think just because someone is pretty much unkillable, it means they necessarily have courage and _like_ putting themselves in the path of injury. Melkor was probably a cringing coward. From what I’ve read, he wasn’t keen to meet —‘ she paused.  
  
‘Fingolfin,’ Maglor finished for her, and his black lashes veiled his eyes, but not before Edenel saw the ancient pain there. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, voice strained to huskiness. ‘That was the legend. No-one except Melkor and his servants witnessed that duel.’  
  
‘Coldagnir did,’ she said. ‘He was there. He says the same. Power doesn’t equate to courage.’  
  
Maglor ran a hand back through his hair. ‘It doesn’t, no. Yes, I do see what you are saying.’  
  
‘After last night, yes, I did find it hard to look at him today,’ she admitted. ‘Before that, I suppose I was thinking of the Balrog in the Lord of the Rings film, Durin’s Bane. But of course none of them were really like that, were they? except maybe Gothmog.’ She swivelled sideways on the chair, hugged her knees. ‘In a peculiarly dreadful way, they were far worse.’  
  
Maglor stoked her hair. ‘Yes. They were.’  
  
‘And that was Coldagnir — Aelios — for a long time. I’m not trying to make excuses for him, Maglor, but I’ve _felt_ —‘ she glanced up at Edenel. ‘Them. Both of them. The Dark Lords. Coldagnir is technically radioactive, yes, but what emanated from them was far worse. Like being irradiated by Darkness, by complete despair and corruption beyond all hope of light.’  
  
Edenel nodded. ‘Like that, yes. And that, I think, as much as anything, twisted the Quendi.’  
  
‘Well, then, it’s a wonder he could find his way back to what he was. _That’s_ a miracle, if you like.’ She unfolded herself, rose restlessly. ‘And so are you and all the _Ithiledhil._ ’  
  
‘I wasn’t there, when Coldagnir _changed_ ,’ Edenel murmured. ‘They went to kill it. But yes, _something_ happened that was unforeseen, even impossible. And to me — us — too. I agree with thee. I just don’t...I don’t know Claire. Why we walked out of Utumno like this and the rest did not.’ He had to turn away then, busy himself checking the sauce. ‘Twenty minutes. Shall we sit in the lounge?’  
  
They closed the door on the drafts, and Maglor went to the wood basket to coax the sullen fire into a comforting blaze.

The embers spat, roared up and Coldagnir walked out of them. He seemed to come from out of an unimaginably vast distance, growing taller, more solid, coalescing until he stood before them, hair streaming back into the fire. For a moment, his eyes were unearthly, chips of the sun itself, skin gilded as if dipped in liquid gold. Then he _cooled_ , visibly; his skin paled, and the flames died down as if commanded (as no doubt they had been). His hair released itself from the fire’s greedy caress, lost its gold-shot scarlet, deepened to the colour of a young copper-beech.  
  
Maglor raised his brows. ‘It is done?’  
  
‘It is done,’ Coldagnir agreed.  
  
‘I must say this,’ Edenel winked at Claire, straight-faced. ‘Your entrances become ever more spectacular.’  
  
‘Don’t tempt me.’ He twisted his hair into a loose knot. One corner of his mouth lifted in a quick grin.  
  
Claire patted the sofa each side of her, inviting. Maglor and Coldagnir, the latter more slowly, sat down. She folded her legs up, beckoned to Edenel. He sank down on the rug in front of her, and she rested a hand on his shoulder.  
  
‘What is it like?’ Claire asked softly. ‘And I realise that it might be impossible to explain.’  
  
‘Not impossible,’ Coldagnir replied. ‘I am just not sure the words have been invented yet, in any language.’ He must have opened his mind then; Edenel had an impression of awesome, sublime power, heat beyond anything he could imagine, and yet he was of it; the sleet of particles, the thunderous roar of nuclear fusion, explosions blooming across the sun’s face, tongues of fire huge enough to swamp the Earth lashing out, coiling back. He blinked as the vision was withdrawn. The room seemed dark. Claire’s hand was trembling. He reached up to touch it. She cleared her throat.  
‘I see what you mean.’  
  
‘It is not much, in the vastness of the universe, Claire.’ But in his voice was the _basso-profondo_ thunder of the Sun. ‘Although all powers of each star are linked in some way, like siblings, if you will. And a black hole could inhale me.’  
  
‘Is that what it felt like in Utumno?’  
  
 _Ah, yes, most acute of thee, Claire._ Edenel turned his head.  
  
‘Yes,’ Coldagnir said after a long pause. ‘Yes. That is exactly what it felt like.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 


	13. ~ Strange Illuminations ~

  
  
  
  


**~ Strange Illuminations ~**

 

 

~ The dark had long come down, enfolding the Manse in its chill embrace; the night was luminous with stars. A serene white moon sailed west.

Edenel had built up the fire in the lounge when Claire came in, looking bright and cosy in a dark green dressing gown. She sent him a smile as she poured two whiskeys.

‘You’re not tired?’ he asked as she sat down beside him. Despite the warmth of the robe and that it was winter, she smelled of the first days of summer; a scent that had reached him even in sleep last night. A promise in the darkness.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I did have a nap after dinner. I’m just a bit...concerned.’ She gestured toward the door. ‘There’s a lot of edginess between them still. Perhaps even more after today. That kind of power is...alarming to say the least. I mean yes, he did tell me what he was, in Venice, and he brought me and Maglor to St. Andrew’s using power, but even so...’

He smiled wryly. ‘Yes. Seeing him fly into the sun is rather different. And only time will heal Maglor’s suspicions, Claire.’ If it ever entirely did. ‘A Fëanorion can hold a hatred — or a love — until the world cracks open.’

She sat down next to him. ‘But _you’ve_ forgiven him. Or have you?’

He frowned at the fire. ‘I am not sure I have, entirely. But I understand how he could be corrupted.’

‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, so do I, having seen it.’

‘I would _never_ forgive the others, Gothmog, Lungorthin, Daachas, who Glorfindel battled in Gondolin.’ His free hand clenched. ‘I saw them move like slaughter in battle, warriors burning like torches. I did not see them wound Fëanor, or kill Fingon, I was further East in the Nirnaeth Arnodiad, but we learned of it soon enough.’ A log crumbled, spitting up sparks like a spume of blood. Claire settled a hand on his knee gently, and he drew his attention from the fire, to her face. ‘But Coldagnir went to Utumno to try and fight Melkor. He failed and fell, like the legends here of the fallen angels.’ Claire nodded. ‘But the others followed him for power, for violence, destruction; the glory of that alone. I think that was why he was punished by them, because he was the only one who came for a different reason, a laudable one.’

Claire’s face shook. ‘Yes, that would be par for the course, somewhere like that.’

‘And then, thousands of years passed. I had thought all the Balrogs long dead until rumour came that the Dwarves had disturbed something in Khazad-dûm.’ He sipped the whiskey. ‘Later, Mithrandir battled with Durin’s Bane and killed it. When I saw Coldagnir, looking like he does now...I did know _about_ him a short time before I saw him; Vanimórë told us. But it was not the time or place to confront him. We were going to war in Angmar, and Coldagnir was with us.’

‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend?’ Claire quoted.

‘Exactly.’ He smiled faintly. ‘We lived in a world where so much had changed, the dead reborn, the damned alive once again. And yet...’ He took another short pull of the whiskey, let it melt over his tongue. ‘And he knew who I was when he saw me. He told Vanimórë. I think I was as much a shock to Coldagnir as he was to me.’

‘You never said anything at all?’

‘Not then, no. I spoke to Vanimórë a little, because he had seen through Coldagnir’s memories. And he understood. He came with me, much as you did, into memories of Utumno, although not for so long, not from the beginning. But it was something he understood.’

‘You didn’t want to confront him? As Maglor did in Venice?’

‘You saw what it was like in Utumno. He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘We had to become like stone, after, like ice. I did speak to him in Imladris, later.’ And that had been...thorny. ‘But I did not fully trust him until I saw how he died, absorbing Gothmog’s energy, his soul. Maglor — _this_ Maglor hasn’t seen it, but Coldagnir is the same person.’

Claire nodded, gazing into her glass, circling it so that the whiskey webbed golden on the crystal. ‘I can see how something like that would dissolve your doubts.’

‘He never told us who he was.’ He shifted back on the sofa. ‘Who he really was, I mean. He knew Morgoth and Sauron even in the Void could see what passed on Arda. How clearly I do not know, but Coldagnir explained it to me after as if they were close enough to touch, separated by the thinnest of barriers. In this word, the equivalent of looking at us through a one-way mirror. They could see us; we could not see them.’  
  
‘That’s a horrible thought.’ Claire grimaced and looked over her shoulder, the action as involuntary as a blink.  
  
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘They could not reach us, of course. And Sauron’s vision would be clearer because he was linked to Vanimórë. At any rate, Coldagnir believed the spirit of Gothmog would come through in Angmar — no doubt he told you — and could not reveal what he truly was because of those on the other side. If Gothmog had known what Coldagnir was, he would not have come through. He thought he was still facing a lesser Balrog.’  
  
‘It must have been lonely, don’t you think?’ she remarked after a moment. ‘Keeping his plan to himself?’  
  
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, it must have been. We have all known loneliness, Claire. You, too.’  
  
She nodded. ‘They say you can be loneliest when surrounded by a crowd. And it’s true. You’ve not seen London. Millions of people in close proximity and yet I’ve never felt so alone in my life.’  
  
He squeezed her hand. ‘I am so glad you released yourself from that. I might call it fated, but whether or no, seeing you in this place, in St. Andrews, walking, being free, the wind in your hair, or baking, playing in the snow today, or sitting here before the fire...this seems more... _fitting_ for you. Maglor and Coldagnir told me of Venice, how you loved the old, tucked away parts of it, the beauty and history, just soaking it in, drifting down the small canals, sitting in the shade and watching the sun on the lagoon. You were made to see beautiful places, to appreciate them. I am sure you were excellent at your job; you have a fine mind, but I think you were made for something richer...’ He paused. ‘I am sorry, I am struggling with the words, I know. I still do, sometimes. Richer, but deeper, too. It reflects you — compliments you — better than that other life, I think.’  
  
She smiled charmingly. ‘That _is_ a compliment. Thank you for that. If you don’t think it boastful of me, I _was_ good at my job. But some careers — and mine was one — seem...vampiric, almost, like Thuringwethil, changing you, sucking away the life until you just live to do the work, you work to do the work. You dream about the work. Some of the things I did were so ridiculous in retrospect. They feel especially stupid after everything I’ve learned in the last few months. I’ve mentioned it: Buying clothes I couldn’t fit into and then starving myself so I could wear them.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Living in a comfortless flat, networking after work, mixing with people I really had so little in common with because it’s just what you did, it was _work_.’  
  
‘Yes,’ he said, watching the expressions cross her face. ‘You were certainly in the wrong environment. Perhaps some people might thrive on it, but—‘  
  
‘A lot of them did, or at least acted as if they did.’ She set the glass on one palm and turned it slowly. ‘Of course I love being able to see places, to travel when I want, although _not_ in the way we did when Coldagnir brought us to St. Andrew’s.’ One side of her mouth turned up and Edenel laughed softly. ‘But well, I was raised to _work_. I’m still getting used to not having to, and feeling a bit guilty about it.’ She fingered the polished semi-precious stones that depended from her ears, malachite set in delicate, antique silver. Maglor had found them somewhere over the Christmas holidays; there was a matching necklace she had worn earlier that day.  
  
He nodded. ‘But what you will do, may be the most important work of all, even if very few ever know about it.’  
  
‘Sounds like a the plot of a movie,’ she grinned and lifted her hand, voice deepening dramatically, so that Edenel started smiling in response even before she spoke: ‘You’ve never heard of them. They move in the shadows. (Not you, Aelios) Only the highest echelons of the world governments know who they are. The Fey Foursome, battling unknown evil in a world that doesn’t know—‘ And her voice dropped further. ‘They even... _exist_.’  
  
Edenel threw back his head and laughed.  
  
‘But such movies never seem to show the fear and the complications of living such a life,’ she added wryly. ‘Maglor’s had to do it ever since ancient times, and when I think about _that_ it’s almost unbearable. And yet _I’m_ going to have to do it too.’ She blinked. ‘I don’t regret what I am, what’s happened, but when I try to think hundreds, a thousand years into the future, if we — the Earth — even have that long! — it’s just a _tiny_ bit overwhelming.’  
  
‘I’m sorry.’ He drew her close. ‘It must be. I have met some of Vanimórë’s _Khadakhir_ ; they were young men, warriors, usually from the Harad or Rhûn or Khand, who were born Mortal, but he gave them immortality. There are not many. He said they would not really believe for some time. But they did accept it, and long after, I could see very little difference between them and Elves born. I hope the acceptance of what you are — and being around others who do not age— will be quite gentle for you. Mortals — although you are not one anymore, you were born one, do seem to be able to accustomed themselves to most things.’  
  
‘Yes, that can be a blessing and a curse; it might be a case of survival,’ she mused.  
  
‘It probably is,’ he agreed.  
  
‘Like you, in Utumno—‘  
  
‘—Like you, with Thuringwethil.’  
  
‘That seems like a long time ago.’ She sounded almost surprised. ‘I did have nightmares. Not so much now...’ He watched her drink, frown, tap her glass and said, ‘What is it?’  
  
‘How long did you have nightmares, or aren’t they quite the same for Elves?’  
  
‘Well, I’m not sure how they are for Mortals, but with us it’s like reliving the experience, just as we’re doing now, when I speak to you of Utumno.’  
  
‘It’s still there,’ she said with a kind of horrified wonder. ‘All that pain. In Maglor too, and Coldagnir.’  
  
‘Elves forget nothing.’ He shifted. ‘With the span of our lives — and yours now — one has to retain perfect memory. And I have never known one who did not wish the past was different.’  
  
‘I know.’ She said, and her voice broke. ‘Oh, I know. There’s so much pain. I felt it before I knew what he was and now I can feel _all_ of you!’  
  
‘I’m so sorry, Claire,’ he said, appalled. ‘I’m so sorry — and for taking you into—‘  
  
She laid a finger over his lips. ‘I said we would go into this together, and I _meant_ it. If this is how Elves see and feel things, well, I’m around two Elves and a god, so I have to get used to it. I don’t regret it.”  
  
‘Some would not want to,’ he remarked. ‘In fact _most_ people would not want to feel it, and those who would go where you did? Very few. But you are not most people, Claire. Maglor would never have been drawn to you if you were.’  
  
‘Or I to him, I suppose.’  
  
‘Some people walk away from pain, avoid it.’  
  
‘It would be easier, yes.’  
  
‘Yet you gave food and drink to the homeless in London. It was one of the reasons Vanimórë decided to ask you if you wanted immortality. He saw you there.’  
  
She looked puzzled. ‘I never saw him. I would have remembered _that_.’  
  
‘He was one of the homeless; he’s done it before, in this and other universes. The way someone behaves toward the vulnerable and weak is not the same as they behave toward a reclusive billionaire.’  
  
‘That much is certain,’ Claire said with a twist of cynicism.  
  
‘You gave him something to eat and drink one evening.’ He saw her trying to sort through her memories of which evening; it was not the first time she had done that, stopped to help someone forgotten by this society, because she had to _think_.  
  
‘Other universes,’ she murmured. ‘And in this one, you died, and Coldagnir too, and in others, I suppose I never accepted this, and maybe _I_ died.’  
  
The fire ate at the logs, a comforting sound; there was no other but the creaks of the old house settling.  
  
‘Everything that can possibly happen has happened _somewhere_ ,’ Edenel said softly. ‘I think sometimes, we dream of them, these other possibilities, other universes.’  
  
‘Do you?’  
  
He frowned. ‘Not before I came to this world. Now...yes, sometimes. But it’s too tempting to want to know more about them, to ask Vanimórë, to wonder...and I need to keep my mind on the job, as they say. I do not need distractions, especially as we don’t yet know where Sauron is. But, yes I have.’  
  
She swallowed. ‘Last night, when I couldn’t sleep and came down?’ He nodded. ‘I did sleep for a while, but I had a dream. I thought maybe it was because this is a new place and sometimes it takes a while for people to relax when they’re somewhere new. But it was incredibly vivid. With that and everything else, I just couldn’t go back to sleep. I dreamed of myself and Maglor, and — someone else. In another place.’ She stood up abruptly, paced to the window and back.  
  
Edenel said, ‘Was it St. Andrews?’  
  
‘Yes,’ she exclaimed. ‘I suppose it’s natural that I’d dream of being there—‘  
  
‘—with Maglor and a young man I do not know — except I _do_ know him. Dark curly hair, a short beard, dark eyes. A beautiful face.’  
  
Claire’s eyes widened.  
  
‘And he had an accent...I apologise, everyone here has an accent to me, but not Scottish or any I have heard in this country.’  
  
Claire sat back down. ‘ _Yes._ I thought it was —Scandinavian perhaps?’  
  
‘About 6 feet tall?’ he asked. ‘Slim? With a lovely smile?’

They looked at one another.  
  
‘Who _is_ he then?’ Claire wondered.  
  
‘I don’t know. When I said I knew him, I have never seen him before but I recognised him. I _knew_ him here.’ He touched his heart. ‘And others too —‘  
  
‘A tall man with grey hair and a short beard,’ she questioned. ‘Very upright, distinguished looking?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
‘And...and...’ Her voice faded. She took a sip of whiskey. ‘I’ve been racking my brains...but if you know him — them — too in some way...’  
  
‘Not from here,’ he ended. ‘From one of these different realities. I think perhaps...’  
  
‘Perhaps?’ she urged.  
  
‘You have Vanimórë’s blood, now. And he has travelled from one universe to another, perhaps more than one. Perhaps it creates some kind of ripple effect.’  
  
‘So I might be seeing myself in another reality,’ she mused. ‘This is making my head spin!’  
  
‘It does,’ he agreed. ‘I didn’t see myself in St. Andrews. It might be a universe where I do not exist, or simply wasn’t there. I don’t have Vanimórë’s blood, but Maglor is, in a way, my kin, so perhaps that is why I saw it.  
  
Claire was sitting on the very edge of the sofa, her face tense. ‘The strange thing was — or rather, _another_ strange thing — they’re really piling up! — Maglor and this other man and me...we were _together_ , as in a threesome.’ She blushed and coughed, and Edenel had to laugh, but not unkindly.  
‘Oh, I’m sorry, but, Claire, before the Valar set out their laws of monogamy, that kind of relationship was very common, and not even threesomes. More. To me, polyamory seems perfectly natural. We _Ithiledhil_ , there are twenty of us, and all lovers at times. I know we became one clan through what happened to us, but even before that we were all intimate. And although it was uncommon, we sometimes did have lovers from outside, too.’ He moved a strand of hair away from her face. ‘The heart can hold more than one love. And it is often enlarged by loving more than one — and by having more than one love _you._ I have thought, observing this world, that Mortals miss out on a great deal of love by cleaving to one person alone.’  
  
‘It felt like that.’ She looked up. ‘Not the kind of relationship I’m used to. I’ve never done it, although I’m aware of it, but it didn’t feel in the least odd.’  
  
‘At some point,’ he said. ‘I think you should speak to Vanimórë. He would be able to tell you more about these other universes. I am not sure exactly what he has seen, and I have not asked. I was aware, when I saw this world, of other possibilities. It was like walking through a blizzard, with every snowflake that was driving past a different possibility. He would tell you, I’m sure.’ 

‘I think I should speak to him,’ she agreed. ‘But here...Maglor and I aren’t...we’re close, but not in that way.’  
  
He forced himself to hide a smile, said carefully: ‘I think that is entirely up to you.’  
  
Claire stared then gasped and laughed, buried her nose in the glass.  
‘And there’s a place,’ she said, suddenly serious, changing the subject although remaining on the same track. ‘Definitely nowhere I’ve ever seen before. It left an impression.’ At his raised brows she went on: ‘It was some immense building, a construction. No, a monument, in a land that was no land. The air was filled with an ochre tinge as if there had been a dust storm, and the wind felt...dead, but the...the monument had a sense of incredible power, as if it was erected over a nuclear reactor that could destroy a galaxy.’ She looked at him, or rather half at him; half her vision was inward. ‘I couldn’t see the top, but I knew it was almost impossibly high. Nothing like any tall building here; it would have dwarfed them. Have you ever...?  
  
‘A monument?’ He repeated, and shivered without reason, as if some invisible energy passed through him. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘No.’ Then: ‘Not yet.’  
  
‘It was a crucible,’ she said and he saw the concern in her eyes as they opened out to him again. She leaned toward him. ‘Edenel?’  
  
‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully, helplessly, as his veins thrummed with power and a kind of undirected fear, a feeling of something building, building, like a storm beyond Time. From the past? The future? ‘A crucible?’  
  
Her eyes went distant again, one hand groped in the air as if to find the shape for words.  
‘A crucible of gods,’ she said.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

‘Tell me about the god thou didst see in the stars.’

Élernil looked sharply at Mairon, then glazed his mind and eyes to blankness.  
‘It was a glimpse, my Lord,’ he replied.

‘And yet it has remained in thy mind so vividly.’

After a moment, he said, ‘Yes. It was the first sight I saw.’

‘And he was not Melkor?’

‘No.’ A glimpse only, and yet Élernil knew beyond doubt it was not Melkor. ‘This was _creation_. Power beyond my comprehension. He walked like a warrior toward battle, but creation flowed in his wake.’

‘Hmm.’ Mairon seemed to consider that. ‘Surely thou doth not think that our Master is _destructive_?’ A brief, sharp-white show of teeth. ‘Look at what he has done.’ He gestured as if to encompass all Utumno. Élernil returned his gaze, permitting no emotion to show itself. After a moment, as if he had passed a test, Mairon continued: ‘Interesting. Because I have seen the Creator, Eru, and he looks nothing like the god thou didst see.’

‘One has to assume, my Lord, that the creator can appear however he pleases.’

‘Perhaps,’ Mairon murmured. ‘Or perhaps this god among the stars was not Eru at all.’ His eyes hooded in thought. ‘A warrior, thou didst say?’

‘He walked as a warrior does, my Lord.’

‘That is...interesting.’ Mairon regarded him. ‘Better not to mention it to our Master perhaps? But I note thou hast not seen him very lately, hast thou? Well done with using the glamour. It seems rather effective.’ Another sliced smile. ‘Of course he does have much on his mind. But I can tell thee that he means to use thee soon...I mean of course use thy skills as warriors,’ he appended, dulcet as a mourning-dove. ‘How fortunate he is to have such as thee bound to him, no?’

Élernil merely bowed crisply. ‘As thou sayest, Lord Mairon.’

The White Slayers were still, on occasion, given monsters to battle, but not as many as they had destroyed on that first shocking instance. Presumably, Melkor did not want to waste his degraded creations, but those he and his people did kill seemed to lose more and more of their original humanity. Élernil could not, now recognise them, for which he was bitterly glad.

He shut away his emotions; they all did. They had learned to convey thoughts to one another with the merest flick of eye or brow, a swift glance, a turned back. Whether Mairon was complicit in aiding them in their shadowing glamour, Élernil did not know but, as Mairon had noted, they rarely saw Melkor now. Élernil could not hope to understand a mind like that, and did not care why, only that they were spared his presence. He did not believe any glamour or sorcery could stand long against the disintegrating gaze of those blue-black eyes.

Still, they followed the orders passed down through Mairon; every day, they fought, either in practice or in earnest. Against the Balrogs, usually. When any of them struck the fire-demons with blade or dagger, ichor, luminescent as molten rubies smoked on the floor. The huge creatures, Gothmog or Lungorthin or Dacchas, were slower than those like Nemrúshkeraz, who was the most lithe and swiftest. All of them were terrifying and their fire blistered and burned. Such matches were not to the death, but few emerged from them without injury.

Élernil had rarely even hurt himself before his capture and such cuts and bruises he did sustain healed swiftly. He had never questioned that; it was part of the leaping _spirit_ in the _Quendi_ , the sheer enjoyment and love of life. Since his capture he had all-too-much experience of pain, but since his changing he — all of them — healed faster even than before. There was pain, a great deal of it, as one watched a cut, an abrasion melt into clean flesh, felt a cracked rib knit. It made him shudder. What had happened to them? Save for the white hair and eyes, they were not greatly changed in appearance, but were they in fact, simply a _different kind of monster_?

Sometimes, opening his eyes in the perpetual crimson-dark, Edenel wondered if he would ever see the light again, if his eyes would even stand it, or if the sun would strike him blind. He had to stop himself from thinking of the land under snow, or the greening of the world, the long, languid days after, when the crops grew and the fruit slowly ripened and the sun lingered through the warm evenings until, day by day, it dipped lower in the sky and the air began to smell of gentle decay and the leaves turned to gold and bronze. It was pointless to remember; the only way one could survive in Utumno was by living from moment to moment.

There was one thing though; a small gleam of hope. In the beginning he had dreaded Finwë being captured, sensing him among the prisoners. He had not felt his twin’s mind for a long time, and it was better so but...but _I thought he might have searched for me._

When that thought insinuated itself, he hated himself so deeply he felt the desire to rip out his own heart in self-loathing. He _wanted_ Finwë to be safe, to be with Míriel and Indis. He thanked whatever gods there might be (save the Dark Ones) that they were not here. The women, the _breeders_ , as Mairon called them, were even more vulnerable than the males by reason of their wombs. Élernil wanted them to leave, take the Tatyar, for Elwë and Olwë and Ingwë to gather the tribes and _go._ Let them travel far, far away beyond the long-spreading shadows of Utumno.

It was part of Melkor, he thought, this reddish light, as if the rock were an extension of his body and whatever spirit that motivated him shone from the black stone. One could almost feel it pulsing, breathing, like some vast heart. he could almost think that slowly, over aeons unmeasured, Utumno would spread its bulk across the world and blot out all light and life.

He saw things in Utumno that made him despair. Once, when he had finished training, Gothmog, wounded by Élernil’s knives, set upon Nemrúshkeraz, raping him violently. It was bestial, vile. Lungorthin took his place after, and they ripped apart one of the dead monsters, thrust entrails down his throat as they pounded into him.

Élernil could find no pity in him for Nemrúshkeraz; there was nothing but the horror that would forever remain with him. He saw monsters and Balrogs feast on blood-stained bones ripped from still-living creatures; he was taken, by Mairon to watch the things that had once been elves rut as if maddened, snarling, screaming. Thuringwethil rode on to them, half-bat, half female as her red eyes watched him, sly and hungry.

When he looked upon his people, the _changed_ , saw them still beautiful, he grasped it to his heart. They were all that was left, and even so, they were not what they had been.

Melkor, he thought, also used Mairon. He never witnessed it, but at whiles he did see Mairon come from the great throne walking with care, the unhumanly lovely face set into lines of pain endured, red fire raging in the back of the lavender eyes. Clearly, Melkor valued Mairon, but it did not elevate him above abuse. He wondered why Mairon was even in this place, what he saw in Melkor that had won his loyalty. They were nothing alike. Mairon’s cruelty was wielded like a flaying knife, unemotional, his temper (if he even had one) perfectly controlled. Melkor clearly gained pleasure from torture and destruction; it seemed to feed some unassuageable hunger in him.

Yet the Balrogs obeyed Mairon. There was a definite hierarchy in Utumno and it was one based on fear and degrees of power: Melkor, Mairon, the Balrogs, and below them the corrupted spirits in the form of werewolves, Fell-wolves, ghouls, shapeshifters, shadow-haunters. Élernil did not think the corrupted Elves had any place in it save the lowest. Melkor would use them, as he used everything in Utumno, and the thought of that black flood of perverted viciousness disgorging from the gates, pouring across the world, defiling it, sickened Élernil.

Time passed unmeasured. Training, fighting, sleeping, eating. Existing. Not thinking of what had happened to them, of what life was like before. Never thinking of the twin he loved; that bond was long since broken. Holding to something: a hand in the darkness, a voice he did not know and yet did who wrapped dream-fingers around his own and would not let go. He clung on like a man drowning.

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

‘Gather thy warriors,’ Mairon told him without preparation or preamble. ‘Thou art being sent out, Quendi, on thy first mission.’ He smiled without one hint of warmth. ‘Gather in the training chamber.’

Élernil said nothing. By the time he left his room, the others were emerging from theirs, all wearing the same closed, cool expressions as they strode to the lower chamber. They lined up perfectly, holding their silence until Mairon entered. Nemrúshkeraz and Lungorthin took up position as door guards.

As always, Mairon appeared remote and elegant, as if nothing that happened within Utumno could ever so much as smudge the edges of his composure. Élernil was quite certain Melkor’s attentions did more than smudge them but he, and all his companions owed this as a debt to Mairon: they learned how to conceal it.

‘Orders,’ Mairon said, walking to Élernil. ‘Thou wrt to return to thine homes, or close enough, and bring back thy people to Utumno.’

Élernil dropped his eyes before they could show a flicker of what he thought. His heart beat furiously. Heat scorched through him. He dare not think of it as the feeling of hope. The others were still as frozen stone.

‘Oh, not many. They must be lured away, hunters perhaps, trappers, travelling singly or in pairs. One or two. I am sure thou wilt be able to control them.’ He smiled. ‘No?’

Élernil said, ‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Lungorthin and Nemrúshkeraz will lead thee to the entrance. None of thee can remember where it is; thou wert not in the correct frame of mind before. But I am very sure thou canst find the way back. We will be waiting. Eagerly.’ He snapped his fingers and the Balrogs swung the great doors open. Turning back, Mairon took Élernil’s chin in one elegant hand. ‘Thou wert quite...delicious, Starflame.’ He pressed one long, deep kiss on Élernil’s lips, then drew back, smiling. ‘Go.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dreams that Claire and Edenel mention are of Sören (Verhalen’s character) and will be covered in a ‘verse called _Homeward Bound_ (and possibly others), by Narya  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame  
> and Verhalen.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen  
> 


	14. ~ My Blood. My Oath ~

  
  
  


**~ My Blood. My Oath.**

 

 

 

 

~ The memory of the kiss lingered, burning on Élernil’s mouth even as Mairon’s eyes burned on the back of his neck.  
They followed the Balrogs.  
The passageways sloped gently upward, widening until a score of men could have marched abreast. There was the whisper of huge hinges, and fresh air stole in — an undreamed-of blessing. Élernil felt it like a flaying knife; it burst in his blood, cold, sharp pinpricks. The light changed, took on a luminous grey.

The Balrogs stood aside as the Elves marched out.

Élernil made himself look back at the vast doors. He had come though them (how long ago, now?) into a hell he could never have imagined, but he could not remember entering.  
He wanted to remember _leaving_ , to fix the image in his mind, not run like a coward into the night. It was almost impossible to comprehend that he had survived, that he and his companions were walking out of Utumno. He had to _look_ at those gates before he allowed his mind to accept that he, his companions were free.

It was night when they stepped out, a pallid moon drifting West. (But he would not lift his eyes to the Moon, not yet). The gates reared so high that the Balrogs who flanked it were as burning coals in the corners of a great heart. The crimson hair of Nemrúshkeraz streaked the cavernous opening like a forest fire. Mairon stood between them, his shape seeming to shimmer from human to giant Fell-wolf. Élernil could see the faint, amused smile on his mouth. He held those red-lit eyes for a long moment, remembering, _remembering._ One of Mairon’s brows quirked.  
At last Élernil looked away, up to where the mountain soared skyward in power-forged pillars and spikes, the cruel excrescences of a dark God’s mind.

His companions marched on in lockstep. He listened to their calm, trained steps, then raised his fist in a salute and brought it to his forehead. Mairon’s quizzical smile deepened. He inclined his head. Élernil wheeled sharply on his heel and followed the others.

They navigated their way down a road bounded by a litter of black boulders and detritus shaken from the mountain above; it cleaved through the rock, ran straight as a blade toward the lower lands. The air here was chill, but it was _fresh_. Élernil had almost forgotten what it was like to breathe air not tainted by the fumes of Melkor’s vast forges, the stink of the orcs. Even after the _changing_ , when he was moved to better quarters, he could not forget the stench of the pits. He had to force himself to breathe normally, afraid that if gulped the sweet air deep into his lungs it would shatter him, go to his head like a draft of _Fireblack_. And he could not fall apart, not yet.

 _I came this way...we all did._ To be swallowed by Utumno’s black throat. There was no vegetation. It was as if the power that radiated from Melkor killed all life, even down to the lichen that should have furred the rocks.

Slowly the barrenness gave way to growth, moss, heather and then dark pines that sang mournfully in the breeze, but Élernil did not pause until the light paled into the grey gloaming that announces sunrise. They were in a region of rough hills that he recognised. Somewhere near, he and Amathon and Arassel had been captured.

He reached out with all his senses — it had occurred to him that Mairon might follow with his Fell-wolves — but there was no scent on the wind, no movement save that of natural creatures, the flutter of waking birds. Looking east, he saw a high layer of cloud advancing to cover the sinking moon with a soft veil. There would be no visible sunrise this morning and Élernil was somewhat relieved. Mairon had warned that the sunlight might be painful after so long in red-black Utumno, and all had a strip of gauzy black to tie over their eyes. But this gentle introduction to daylight troubled none of them.

_Or perhaps we really are monsters._

Behind them, as he turned to look back, the mountains loomed, black and threatening. Above Utumno, their worked pillars spiked into a monstrous iron-black crown that frowned down across the world.

_And now I have seen the one who wears that crown..._

His throat closed convulsively. _We are still too close._ He turned to hold his people, all those whom had survived, in the embrace of his gaze. He knew that they needed to enact their release, to feel it in bone and soul and blood, but it was too dangerous. He made a tiny gesture with one finger, _Wait. Not yet._

They ran on, down through the wild hills, past the bright laughter of thin streams, across grass that skimmed soft and buoyant under their feet, and the pressure in Élernil, in all of them built and built and was held, hammered down, strangled until — _now._

They stopped as one. Then, as if a string had been cut, they sank to their knees, raised their heads and _screamed_. The sound ripped through the mild, grey morning, desolate, brutal. Birds rose, clattering from the trees in squawking alarm. Deep within the release, they did not see or hear. Élernil, linked to all of them, knew Culina did not cry out, but nevertheless she gave mental voice. Some broke into wild laughter, so terrible that it burnt the throat and scorched Élernil’s soul. They tore at their faces, their hair, wept, clawed into the grass as if digging their own graves. But their dark graves lay northward, under the iron crown that had devoured their souls and buried what was left of them. Leaving...whatever they were, now. _Another kind of monster..._

 

 

He opened his eyes to silence, the scent of bruised grass. Water was flowing nearby and thirst assailed him. He rose on legs that shook, stumbled to the stream, splashed his face and drank. Amathon joined him, and Culina, then the others, swallowing icy cold drafts as if to slake an inner drought.

And then, they went on. There was no question as to where, no question either that, when they found their people, they could not rejoin them. How could they bring the very shadow of the dark that corrupted and tormented them into their midst? How could they tell them: _We survived; most did not. Or not in any way thou wouldst recognise, just as we are not what we were, once. Thy lovers, children, friends; those who live, if living it can be called, are abominations. Perhaps the strange powers out of the west slew them. I hope so. Yet others we slew and with delight, in Utumno’s pits..._

They could never go back. He did not think he would be able to bear it if those he had known and loved looked on the _Ithiledhil_ with horror or, perhaps worse, without recognition. But just to look on them from a distance, just to _see_ them...

They ran, hardly pausing to rest, ran _to_ something that was beyond their reach, and _from_ something they could never outrun, never forget. And Élernil was conscious of a pressure that seemed to grow as the days and nights passed over them, a weight as if something vast, impossible were about to descend upon them. It was an external feeling this time, not born from the torn wreck of the soul. Was it possible Melkor guessed their intention never to return and was pursuing them? If that was so, Élernil would take his own life before he was recaptured.

But the land, too, seemed to feel the same sense of impending doom; flocks of birds cried and and wheeled overhead, then flew South; great bears lumbered out of winter hibernation, rose on their hind legs and snuffed the air; their deep rumbling roars echoing in the hills. Great Elk, foxes, timber wolves, passed by, all infected by the same desire to flee the north. It explained why they had, since leaving Utumno, seen fewer birds and animals; it did not explain the instinct that drove them. These were no natural migrations.

The weather turned stormy; capricious winds slammed out of the West, sharp and cold with stinging rain, then unnaturally warm, drying the steaming ground. Storms cracked overhead, sudden and violent, and blew over as quickly.  
And clouds piled higher and higher above Utumno; they took on the shape of a great figure, crowned and robed, watching. Real or no, it set wings to the Elves’ feet.

There was little game to hunt, but they came on carcasses felled by lightning or fallen trees, and because they would not stop, ate the flesh raw and bloody as they had in the pits. There was no time even to feel nausea or give room to the horror that memory caused; they needed the food, and they needed to keep running.

Seven days out of Utumno, and Arassel, who had climbed to a hill to scan the land, raised his hand. _Élernil! Something comes!_

Élernil joined him on the brow of the hill, the other following. They had come far enough now to feel a certain safely in the widening distance between themselves and Utumno. But that cloud formation looked, if anything, even more vast and foreboding, its lineaments sharply defined. A suggestion of eyes glared from under the titan crown. The darkest god. They had bowed before him...

And then whatever it was that had been building, was here, it was here, _now._

First the blast of wind, icy, then kiln-hot — and from the West burst a storm unlike anything Élernil had ever known.

Clods raced across the sky, white as frost, straight towards Utumno as if in a direct collision course with the great shape that towered above it. There, they paused high above and then—dropped. Élernil saw a figure, storm-coloured wings swept back like a diving hawk’s... The world seemed to hold its breath. Then white met black with a concussion that shook him from his feet.

Élernil pressed himself against the grass as the gale sheered over him. He remembered the water-spirit’s words of the other gods. This must be those powers, bringing war to the darkest god.

When it came, he was not prepared, no one could have been, for the summons of Melkor smashing into their minds. _Ragepowercommand_. _Come to me!_

It was imperative, irrefusable as death. Every nerve in Élernil’s body scorched red-hot; he felt himself straining, muscles gathering, pushing him up as if to answer, to run northward. His teeth set so hard his jaw ached.

Some-one cried, _No._ The voice was not physical but whipped through his mind. Flinching, through the agony, he felt a grip on both his hands, anchoring him. But there was no one there, nothing to see. And he remembered Utumno. A dream. _Hold onto me._

He sucked in a racking breath.  
‘ _No_!’

 

Defiance erupted from the bottom of his soul. He screamed it unintelligibly into the face of that power, dragged it up from the marrow of his bones, the pulse of his blood, the blinding flashes behind his eyes. Faces reeled across his vision like flying flame, unknown, yet _known_. As familiar to him as the set of his bones, the pathways of his mind. They were pain and glory and love and he knew that they stood with him, were locked with him in this battle. There was a woman whom he thought was like Culina, with a ripple of rose-gold hair, a man with diamond eyes, another very like him, a twin, or son, and one with eyes were like the blue stars embedded in the milky road of the cosmos. They were as kings, as princes, superb in their beauty, their acuity, their fell and brilliant shining...Eight swords met against a black sky, fire went up in a scream of ash and smoke, a great host of people walked across a land of ice, a tower sent acrid fumes into a cool sky.  
  
Someone screamed in a grief so terrible it seemed one must go mad under it, because one they loved was lost, gone. Three jewels blazed like the king’s diamond eyes. One of them floated in dark water as a black haired man screamed his despair to an uncaring sea.  
  
Visions like a landslide, world after world — a fireball fell in a crack of flaming wings that cradled a man and woman and blood flowed like rubies.   
Then a man with a loose cap of black curls, a neat growth of hair covering his jaw, and one who seemed older, yet was not, silvery-grey of hair. They shone, adamantine in resolve even as bloody tears streaked their beautiful faces. Behind them, a man’s head half turned, jet hair streaming, jewelled with a millions stars.  
  
Again, as in Utumno, Élernil felt himself in white fire, burning as he screamed and using the flame to lash back at Melkor’s thunderous, earth-cracking command. He flung the fire in his mind to his companions, tethering them to him, setting them alight, and they _blazed_ , crucified on the furnace of denial.  
  
 _I will not. will not._ Will _not!_  
 _I_  
 _He_  
  
 _Will_  
 _Will_  
  
 _Not_.  
 _Not_!  
  
The cry came as a chorus from multiple throats, a woman’s voice and men’s blended into one resonant declamation, hard as reforged steel, a challenge, a bared sword raised against the power of the Dark. Starfire burned like the wrath of gods unleashed.  
  
As Élernil sank into unconsciousness he heard their voices, but could no longer understand the words. He wanted to reach out and thank them; he stretched out a hand, but the darkness came over him like a mountain collapsing and their alien words and known-yet-unknown faces faded into sleep.  
  
  
  
A woman’s voice was speaking. At first he thought, blinking dazedly, that it was Culina, that she knelt over him, rosy hair tumbled about her white face, red tears spilling down her cheeks. Her lips moved urgently in a name, but it was not his. _Edenel,_ she said, _Edenel._ And then words that he did not understand. Her hand touched his face. He was in some warm, dim-lit place, the glow of fire polished the woman’s hair.  
  
A rush of air into his lungs. He coughed, looking up into Claire’s face. Their eyes met and he sat up quickly.  
  
‘You’re crying.’’ His voice sounded raw, his throat ached.  
  
‘So are you.’  
  
‘I never cry.’  
  
She gave him a frankly disbelieving look, touched his cheeks and showed him the scarlet evidence, then wiped her own face and regarded the blood on her fingers with brief shock. Seizing a wad of tissues, she mopped the red tears. ‘We can’t get blood on the carpets,’ she said. ‘It’s not our house.’  
  
‘Oh, Claire.’ He drew her into his arms. She held him tightly, heart beating hard against his. ‘I thought you were dead, I couldn’t feel you breathing,’ she said into his shoulder. ‘I was going to throw water over you any minute.’  
  
A bubble of laughter rose in his sore throat. A moment later, they were both laughing, a silent, side-aching laughter too close to tears, like people who have outrun a volcanic eruption, but deeper, more violent. More terrible.  
  
‘Claire,’ he said when he could get his breath and control. ‘Your eyes, I am so sorry.’  
  
The blood vessels had burst, in his own, too. He took her head between his hands, examining her face, but already the blood was dissipating.  
‘Is there any pain?’ he asked in concern.  
  
‘I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out. I thought my eardrums were going to burst. My throat hurts. But it’s not as bad as it was,’ she assured him, and wiped at a trickle of blood from her nose. ‘Oh my god, I feel like a stigmatic.’  
  
‘I would call it phantom pain, but knowing what I do about the multiverse, or rather what I don’t know, perhaps it is more. A what?’  
  
‘Bloody hell,’ she said feelingly. ‘A stigmatic. Oh, usually they’re very religious people, Christians, who start to bleed from the crucifixion wounds of Jesus Christ, the crown of thorns, the palms of the hands, for no reason.’  
  
‘You don’t crucify people through the palms,’ he said, feeling her still hectic pulse. ‘It would just tear through. You have to use the wrist.’ Then he grimaced. ‘Sorry.’  
  
‘Orcs?’ she asked. He nodded.  
  
She shook her head. ‘Tea, and whiskey,’ she decided.  
  
‘Yes, please.’ They shared a complicated smile, went into the kitchen to wash their faces, and Edenel made tea which they took back into the sitting room. He also poured them each two fingers of whiskey and put it on the coffee table. Claire cradled her mug in both hands.  
‘It felt like he — Melkor — was trying to pull my soul out of my body,’ she murmured.  
  
‘That is exactly what it did feel like,’ Edenel agreed sombrely. They sat in a silence like the aftermath of a storm for a moment, just drinking the tea, letting the lingering aches ebb from their bodies. Claire dabbed her nose experimentally, but the bleeding had stopped. She sighed, placed the empty mug on the table, picked up the whiskey glass and sat back, nestling into Edenel’s side. He put an arm around her.  
  
‘You know the people I spoke of,’ she said. ‘In the dream?’  
  
‘Yes?’  
  
‘I thought, when you — when we — were going through that, I saw them. Heard them.’ Her voice lifted into a question.  
  
‘I saw them, too,’ he said quietly. ‘I might not remember it _then_.’ He shook his head at the impossibility of that statement. ‘Fëanor, Fingolfin, Maglor...and you. But two of them I do not know.’  
  
‘The young man with the curly hair,’ Claire said. ‘And the older one.’  
  
‘Yes, before I passed out I heard all of you, and saw you. You joined in my denial of Melkor. I—‘  
  
‘Will. Not,’ Claire completed. She frowned. ‘Then somewhere else, in a different world, in what was your future, they felt that, too.’  
  
‘It would seem so.’  
  
‘I wish I knew who they were, those two.’  
  
‘So do I, if just to apologise. I would not want anyone to go through that.’ He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. ‘Even in a dream, much less to be ambushed by it out of nowhere. They were bleeding too. Claire, do you realise, that you’ve changed how this happened? Not what did happen, but _how_?’  
  
She took a mouthful of whiskey, winced as if her mouth were bitten sore, then swallowed. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’  
  
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know if I ever escaped truly, or how, only that in the reality you — and they — influenced, I did. And I was unconscious after, we all were, and you woke me. And more: You called me by my name. I was not Edenel, then. And I was not Élernil either. When I thought of myself, he no longer existed. He was gone. I had no name for myself. You named me.’  
  
‘I...gave you the name?’  
  
‘You must have. I heard it as though in a dream.’  
  
He felt a ripple of emotion strike through her, her puzzlement at the entangling threads of the multiverse.  
‘Was that the end, then?’ she asked after a long moment. ‘He never tried to summon you again?’  
  
‘I think he would have, but was rather preoccupied with the battle,’ Edenel remarked dryly. ‘No, but he sent someone.’  
  
Her head turned sharply. ‘Sauron?’  
  
‘No,’ he said. ‘Nemrúshkeraz.’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

He came back to himself under the moan of a wind that sheered the treetops. Rolling on his side, he pushed himself to his knees.

They were all there, harrowed, unconscious. Red streaked their faces, ran from their ears to stain their hair, from nose to lips, down their chins. Their heels and fingers had torn up the grass in their furious convulsions. He touched his face, rubbed off flecks of dried blood.

But the imposition of Melkor’s will, the dreadful voice within him, had gone. He felt light and brittle as a husk, his very bones racked, but the awful weight, the demand that threatened to tear his soul from his body, had lifted. Raising his head, he looked to the north, buried now, in clouds the colour of ink, lit red and white by massive rivers of lightning. The earth trembled under his feet, thunder rolled out of the storm of war. The wind bore the scent of iron and ice and burning.

He went to each of his companions, gently drawing them awake. He imagined his eyes, white floating in the red of burst blood vessels, looked as battered senseless as their own. He could not speak; something had torn in his throat perhaps, while he screamed. He could taste blood on his lips, when he painfully swallowed past the hot swelling.

He did not take them far, just down the hill to a small dell where a stream danced down from the higher land. They washed themselves clean of blood and the sweat of denial, laid their leathers out to air. He uncorked a skin of mead and each of them drank. And then, exhausted, they slept to the murmur of the little creek.

 

 

Élernil woke to a moonless night. He dressed himself, bound back his hair and climbed to the hill. The north of the world was...burning. It was a impossible, awesome sight. He lifted his head to encompass it.

 _We were trained to serve thee. We will not. We will hunt down and kill all those who do._ If any survived that conflagration.

Élernil turned to his people who had silently come behind him. He drew one of his knives, or rather, the weapons he had been given in Utumno; not his, like those Finwë had lovingly fashioned for him and were lost now. No love had gone into the making of these daggers; they were simply made to kill.  
He sliced the edge across the palm of his hand.  
‘By my blood, I vow this: We deny the Dark God and all his works. Where we find his servants, there shall be no pity. No mercy.’ He drew the cut palm down over his face, smearing red, raised the blooded dagger to the sky. ‘This is Blood Oath, Melkor! My blood. My oath.’

One by one, they took their knives, and swore.

 

 

Culina mixed the oak gall to draw on their battle markings. When all were done, Élernil drew on her own.

He was not Élernil any-more. _Star Prince_ , his name had meant. Whatever he had been, Utumno had devoured it. Stars could not survive there. Something had, but it was not Élernil.

He raised his head, to where the flying clouds had torn to show one bright-shining star.  
 _Edenel._ A voice out of sleep, out of a dream of soft firelight and comfort. _Edenel._

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Henceforth, I am Edenel.’ He looked around at all of them. ‘And we shall take a new name, also. We are the Folk of the Black Moon. We were born, truly, on a night of no moon. We are the _Ithiledhil._

 

 

They remained three days beside the creek, as behind them the whole north raged with lightning and whirlwinds of fire. Huge fireballs and boulders were hurled high into the black air and thundered down, shaking the land, but none came so far as the _Ithiledhil._ Fortunately. War among the gods cared nothing for those lesser beings caught in its jaws.

Days later, an uncanny quiet settled. The _Ithiledhil_ pressed on southward. These lands were more familiar, and from the hills they could see the far blue glimmer of Helcar and hear the myriad streams running down to feed the Inland sea. The Orocarni marched like hoary sentinels on their left.

And they saw no-one. Perhaps it was not surprising; the tribes would stay close while war raged, but Edenel expected to see some scouts out at the least; had he been in Cuiviénen still, he would have sent them out, and indeed come himself. Finwë was more cautious than he, but no fool, neither were Olwë and Elwë, or Ingwë.

Culina watched him with the same yearning he knew shone in his own eyes. _Just to see them._ To look on them from afar, to know they existed...He nodded, gripped her shoulder. Her step as she walked, quickened eagerly.  
Edenel took the rear, scanning for signs of pursuit.  
And when it came, it was not as he had imagined.

He turned at the noise, soft at first, then louder, rising to a scream. A fireball, like those vomited by the battle in the North. He expected it to fly over their heads. It did not. It poised above them, torturing the air with its heat, and for a moment, Edenel saw the shape of a Balrog. _Nemrúshkeraz_. He had not even realised they could fly. Then the fireball expanded and a god stood in its midst, scarlet hair whipping like tendrils of fame, eyes that burned molten bronze from edge to edge, a terrifying, superlatively beautiful face. A moment later, he thought he must have imagined it, for there was nothing but that black shape within the storm of fire.

‘Go,’ he shouted. His knives were already in his hands, for all the use they would be against a Balrog. Perhaps he could not kill it, but he had wounded them all in the fighting pits and would do so again before it burned the skin from his bones.

Then a sound rang across the sky like a clarion. A white light descended, hovered in mid-air. Storm-coloured wings held the figure motionless.

‘Nemrúshkeraz!’ It cried. ‘Bastard sun-spawn! Meet _me._ ’ And he looked down at Edenel. ‘ _Go._

It struck the Balrog in a conflagration that concussed the air, and cracked power across the sky. Then Edenel saw the fire drawn into a whirling funnel, a tornado that touched down, then tore wildly across the land, setting the treetops alight. The _Ithiledhil_ backed away, ran through acrid smoke until a deluge of rain doused the flames, plastering Edenel’s hair to his head and leaving the stink of old burning. When at last they stopped, the battle had flung itself eastward to the mountains. He could see, far away, the ruby conflagration climbing the heights. Something seemed to peel away from it, gain speed and shape as it plunged toward them, but the wings were not fire; these were the colour of winter. Above them it poised, then alighted soft as a whisper. The vast wings vanished in a shimmer of dark silver.

He was clad in superbly fashioned body armour; a silver-white helm clasping his cheeks and topped with winglike plumes. Hair like a storm-cloud and eyes the same, wrists bound with delicate chains that appeared and vanished, smoking, a collar about its neck. Edenel thought this was the same one he had seen plunging into Utumno, vanguard of the god’s army. He was a warrior: it was in his stance, his graceful, dangerous movements, the air of utter competence.

The _Ithiledhil_ half crouched, ready to do battle as the warrior strode toward them. Steam misted up around his feet. Under the brow of the helm, his eyes frowned at them.  
‘Thou art Quendi?’ It was half a question.

Edenel looked into the wild, trapped eyes. ‘We were,’ he said levelly.

‘And what art thou now?’ He sounded as if he asked a question of the air.

Edenel subjected his soul to a brief, cold examination and said, ‘Survivors.’

Something unnamable flashed across the warrior’s face. ‘How didst thou escape Utumno?’

‘We were sent. And summoned back. We resisted that summons.’ He dared the warrior to doubt it. ‘We have made blood-oath never to return or to serve him. And whom art _thou_?’

‘I am Eönwë, herald of Manwë, King of the Valar.’ He glanced behind him, as if he expected to see the god he served standing at his shoulder. ‘Utumno is unroofed. Melkor is chained.’

The _Ithiledhil_ looked at one another.

‘He will be taken to Valinor and judged. We found...terrible things in the guts of Utumno. Corruption, torment.’ Edenel nodded, not looking away. ‘We found Maia like myself twisted into monsters.’ At the continued silence, he said. ‘The Lord Manwë would wish to speak to thee.’

‘I have heard of the gods of the West,’ Edenel said. ‘How they chained and entrapped the spirits of this land. And thou art one of them, I think. Thou art shackled.

Eönwë stared at him, he raised gauntleted hands from which the chains trailed, shifting in and out of visibility. ‘Thou canst see this?’ He sounded disbelieving.

‘Yes, see the chains, Maia. Eönwë. I think we shall not speak to thy _Lord Manwë_. We wish to assure ourselves that our people are well, unharmed and then we shall travel onward.’

‘Thou wilt not find thy people nigh to Cuiviénen, Quendi-that-was,’ Eönwë told him. ‘The Lord Oromë came among thy people and now they have left, making the Great Journey into the West, to Valinor, the Blessed Realm.’ White teeth bit down on the last word.

Edenel stood frozen. ‘Why?’ He asked at last, words piling and choking in his throat. ‘Why would they leave our home?’

‘Thy leaders were taken to Valinor, to see its glory,’ Eönwë spoke as if by rote, his voice flat. ‘There they will live in the peace and purity of Aman, the land of the Powers. Nothing will harm them.’

Edenel shook himself from shock and moved toward Eönwë. ‘Why would the Powers offer them this?’

Long dark lashes blinked. ‘Oh, Quendi, dost thou not know? Thou art the Children of Eru, the Creator, self-aware, thinking creatures. And thou art beautiful.’ A warmth darkened those cold eyes for a moment and then Eönwë laughed, a strange humourless sound.

Edenel was cold to the bone. He heard Mairon’s mellifluous voice: _My Lord has a use for thee.’ A flickering smile. ‘Thou art self-aware, thinking creatures. And Eru’s children.’_  
‘That,’ he said. ‘Is exactly what Mairon said. That is why Melkor wanted us.’

Eönwë’s helm head nodded once. ‘Then thou hast no need of any warning, and if thou canst see my chains, thou art wiser than thy kin, and there is no place for thee in Aman.’ He stepped forward, placed a kiss on Edenel’s brow. ‘Go, then. The _Valarauka_ flees, and I doubt it will return, but thou didst speak of Mairon?’

‘Is he chained, also?’ Edenel asked hoping very much the answer would be yes and knowing it would not be.

Eönwë said, ‘Unfortunately not. He escaped and eludes us. It is my duty to help guard the Quendi on their great journey, but also to look for Mairon.’

‘Good luck.’ He would need it.

The wings shimmered out, and Eönwë leaped into the sky. He saluted them, hand on breast and then was gone in a rush of wind.

‘What do we do?’ Amathon murmured.

Edenel turned to face him. ‘What dost thou wish to do, my friend? Thou didst see Eönwë was shackled?’

Amathon’s mouth thinned. ‘I saw. I do not understand how they could leave, go into that cage, Edenel. For that is what it will be. The Valars’ cage or Melkor’s. It may be a cage of gold and rose leaves, not what we...what..we...’ He swallowed down the words. They could not speak of it, not yet. ‘How could they?’ _How could they leave us_?

Edenel laid both hands on his friend’s shoulders.  
‘Their people, us and...others, disappeared. And then the war. Perhaps they desire safety. Who can blame them?’ He looked at the others. ‘So. Are we agreed?’

‘We are together,’ Arassel said softy. ‘Always. Did the Balrog come for us, Edenel?’

Edenel gazed east toward the snow-crowned Orocarni, but the ember mote of the Balrog had faded into the far distances. _Bastard sun-spawn_ , Eönwë had called it. He glanced up reflexively, though the Sun was hidden today. Was that what the Balrogs were, some spirit of the Sun darkened by Melkor?  
‘I imagine it did, but even though it has gone, we must keep watch.’ If Nemrúshkeraz and Mairon had escaped, perhaps other things had too, Gothmog, Lungorthin...? Out of all of them, save Melkor, Edenel feared Mairon the most. He still had no true idea of Mairon’s powers. The healed cut on his palm throbbed like fire. _I will open my throat before he takes me again._  
< br />

‘Come,’ he said. ‘Take point, Amathon. I will take the rear guard.’

They went on, through pinewoods where even their whiteness was muted, blending into the dark shadows, and their feet made no noise on the dropped carpet of pine-needles. The woods provided good cover, but Edenel became more vigilant. Often he paused, his eyes probing the dimness, listening, scenting the air, before moving on.

It was at dawn the next day when, with no warning, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his veins ran with ice. They had slept a little, he uneasily, and gone on before sunrise. Once again, he had fallen back. Culina was on point this time and leading them fast.

He stopped, turned slowly. The pine needles muffled all sound, and he could hear nothing, nothing at all as he walked carefully backward, yet all his senses screamed at him. He spun as a white shape faded into the gloom, smelt blood and singed fur. His heart came up in his throat even as he moved toward it, but it melted further into the shadows. A low growl sounded, a warning.

_I will let thee go this time, Starflame. My beautiful monster._

He heaved in a breath, ran toward the sound, but for the ghostly glimpse of pale fur, a few birds high in the trees clattering away in fright, he found nothing. At last the sense of being stalked ran down into nothing. The wood was just a wood, dark and quiet, but he was no longer watched.

 _He is inured,_ Edenel thought, backtracking. _And in hiding himself._ If he could have found Marion perhaps he could have killed him.

Arassel was waiting for him. He shook his head saying nothing, making the sign to wait.

 

 

The next day they left the cover of the woods. Two days after, they came to their home.  
The settlements were deserted; bare of all that had made them homes, workshops, a place to live, a community. The doors had been closed, but on entering, only dust lifted, spiralling in the wind. The byres and stables, the pastures, the cellars, all were empty. They went to every house, found nothing, even Míriel’s looms were gone. Edenel leaned against the stone wall of the house he had shared with Finwë and looked West toward Helcar.

He held a potsherd in his hand. Finwë must have broken the bowl, tossed the pieces into the fire, but not lit it. There was nothing now, save the walls to show that this had been his house, Élernil’s house and Finwë’s, a place they had built together and lived in, first in joy, then, later in uneasiness, through passion and argument and Finwë’s later jealousy and coldness.

Cúndur, who had been one of Ingwë’s greatest hunters, came running back from his reconnaissance. ‘They went North,’ he said. ‘I found a place where they must have camped. Do we follow? Their pace will be slow with so many.’

‘We follow,’ Edenel agreed. He closed his hand on the pottery shard. Blood welled through his fingers.

Just to see them again...

 

 

OooOooO

 

 


	15. ~ Torn Veils ~

  
  
~ The exodus of a people. While a part of Edenel could comprehend their decision to leave what he felt — what all the _Ithiledhil_ felt — was abandonment; lft behind, something unwanted, unregarded, shards of a broken bowl like the one he had found in his home. What had once been his home.  
The fact that the _Ithiledhil_ considered themselves monsters, spoiled, not fit to go among their people now, did not negate the hurt in their hearts.  
  
It took less than four days to catch up with the last of them — four days at a run, with few pauses. These were the Nelyar, who were also the greatest in number, and Olwë’s followers. Sometimes Edenel came close enough to hear their voices and it was clear from the conversations that not all of them had been willing to leave. They considered themselves bound by loyalty to Olwë, whose descriptions of the glory of Valinor were vivid, but their own hearts were rooted in Endor. Their progress was slow, reluctant.  
  
Ingwë’s people were in the vanguard, the Tatyar were amidmost. When they paused, their cooking fires were like a galaxy of red-gold stars in the night. The _Ithiledhil_ watched them from afar, longing with a pain that gnawed the soul, to go down among them. Voices rose in song at times, and there was the sound of pipe and lyre and harp. But the music faded out as their way bent northward. There, far away, but threatening, the fume of war still hung low over the mountains and lighting flickered ominously. A discharge of such immense power, Edenel thought, lingered.  
  
It was here that some of the _Quendi_ paused and drew back, leaving the main host in ones and twos and small groups. Maybe it was fear that pricked them, though (more likely) their doubts had only been solidified. Those who left were mainly Nelyar, but there were some Tatyar also, and a few Minyar. Some went South, the others East.  
  
Spring came on a wave of green and blossom. Storms might rage over the mountains, but the Quendi traveled through benign sunlight and mild, starlit nights. Perhaps the Valar were responsible for the clement weather, holding back the wind and rain, pushing it North. If so, they were not in evidence, Edenel saw only Oromë the Hunter and his great white horse; the god looked restless and wild, hair in a hundred braids, his leggings and tunic of mottled snakeskin. Sometimes he walked among the _Quendi_ , but mostly rode alone at the head. Eönwë too, was there at times. Edenel wondered if he knew the _Ithiledhil_ were following. Probably, both he and Oromë were aware. They gave no indication of it, but Edenel drew his people further back. There was no feeling that the _Quendi_ were being forced but, especially after Eönwë’s words, the _Ithiledhil_ did not want to risk being taken by the Valar. They had tasted the powers of gods; it had been poured down their throat in Utumno, and wanted no truck with them.  
  
It was unsettling to walk back in the direction of Utumno. Yes, Melkor had been taken, imprisoned, but Mairon had not, apparently, been found, and Coldagnir had likewise escaped. Edenel believed (feared) that many more had fled the destruction.  
  
And so, even though it was not, perhaps necessary, the _Ithiledhil_ went out to screen the _Quendi_. There were only a score of them, so each worked alone. Edenel and Culina travelled furthest toward the North. The air still smelt of burning when the wind blew from the mountains, of cinders dampened by rain. The sunsets were brilliant after the war of powers, blazing the western sky scarlet, purple, crimson.  
  
It was under such a sunset that Edenel, prowling silently, heard the scream and whipped around, fixing on the direction it came from. That howl had not issued from any _Quendi’s_ throat. He had heard such cries before, when he and his companions had slaughtered the corrupted in Utumno. And then a stench assailed him: the blood and filth of the pits.  
  
He raced through a stand of pine, leapt down into a narrow gully. The violent colours of the sunset seemed to paint Culina’s hair its original golden-rose as she stood, her long knife dripping black blood. The monster jerked in its death throes, amber fangs bared, heels drumming the earth, and Edenel’s stomach curled at the sight of it, not its pain but the horror that it had existed at all.  
  
Culina went down on one knee, dagger slicing through its horny leather armour. She pulled it aside, then her hand spread on its chest — and pushed through. Edenel heard the wet sound of tearing flesh as her fingers plunged deep into the cavity, then wrenched out, holding the dripping heart. The monster spasmed, mouth widening in a voiceless scream. Culina brought the heart to her lips, and bit, her white teeth tearing through thick muscle. She chewed, blood streaking down her chin, smearing her mouth. Her eyes did not leave the orc as it died.  
  
 _Oh, my dear._  
  
Her head turned as he made his way down to her. She never spoke now, but there was no need. Their thoughts met and meshed. _To take back something, to reclaim it from the Dark, to eat its soul..._  
  
He took her head in his hands, kissed her brow, then her bloody lips, tasting the mineral tang in his mouth. _Yes, my dear Culina. To bring them back to us, so they will not be lost._  
  
There were no tears in her eyes, and none of the aloof, wintry calm she — all of them — had donned in Utumno and reinforced day by day until their old selves were as strangers seen long ago and now lost. Now, Culina burned as white light with terrifying hate and resolution. Slowly, her eyes fixed on his, she raised the torn heart, offered it in her palm. From her it was, he knew, a gift.  
‘I thank thee, Culina,’ he said gravely _Friend. Lover. Warrior. Survivor._ and bowed his head.  
  
He had, after all, eaten worse.

Culina shared the heart bite for bite, and with each mouthful of the bitter muscle, Edenel felt the rage deepen within him. _How dare he do this to us. How dare they succumb. How dare they exist_? And trailing those thoughts: _Come home, come back to us._  
  
They stood in the fern-grown gully with the reek of death around them. This was the blossoming of the year, the peak of the Stirring. Once, it had been a time of joy and celebration. Edenel wondered if the _Ithiledhil_ would ever know joy again. Perhaps there would only, ever, be vengeance.  
  
Culina raised her scarlet hands, set them on his hips, and eyes unblinking, moved one down to cup his sex. It had hardened during the bloody feast. Her fingers moved, untying the laces, still looking into his eyes. He had not thought, after her violation, she would want intimacy. And he would have thought, has he ever considered it, that all desire had been scorched out of him in Utumno.  
  
But no. No. The lust had been building since he saw her tear out the corrupted’s heart. It was feral, almost undirected, and he had feared it, _A different kind of monster._ (Mairon’s eyes, Mairon’s subtle smile). Never would he have unleashed it on Culina, had she not made it clear she wanted it.  
  
She did want it, him, or perhaps any one of them — or just something, someone to escape with for a time, to unseat the memory of rape and horror. To challenge it. She was more than hungry, was as wild as he, and he could have wept, were there any tears left in him, remembering her laughing and passionate under the moon, flowers falling out of her rose-gilt hair. Warm, smiling.  
  
Memories.  
  
He had made her a necklet, amber and opals that shone with a subtle fire under the stars.  
  
The sound of her rich, inviting chuckle as she invited him inside her, smiling, her unfettered and glorious response.  
  
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her body arched back. She rode him with the stars burning above her head, crowning her in a diadem of light.  
  
Memories. Burned to ash in Utumno. Tainted ashes blown on the wind. There was no laughter in her now and her passion had become something alien and frightening, a terrifying hunger to release all that she had endured. But he understood it; it was within him too.  
  
at the end, her mind screamed with the power of her orgasm and she throbbed around him like a beating heart.  
  
So, out of death, in the spring of the year, they grasped at a kind of life. She touched his lips after, a gesture of thanks.  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

There were no more orcs, at least not in the vicinity. Culina had stumbled on this one creeping through the gully and leapt down on it. But there would be more, Edenel guessed.

There were. Not hordes, but enough for Edenel to know that some had indeed survived the destruction of Utumno, crawled out through tunnels and broken rock. Those _Ithiledhil_ to the south and east returned to join the hunt and the orcs they found were slain, their hearts devoured. Some wept as they did so, or screamed out their appalling hurt and hate. Others, like Culina, were silent, merciless as winter. The bodies they left as carrion — and as a warning.

And so they journeyed on through the late spring and into the summer. The great migration of _Quendi_ forded rivers, and crossed a great wide plain where aurochs grazed and Elk lifted huge antlered heads. In the distance a forest stretched before them, one as dark and deep as the old Wildwood. Far beyond, mountains pricked the skyline, a long north-south range half-buried in grey clouds.

Oromë lead them through the forest using a wide path that perhaps he had cleared his self and (long after) would be called the Old Forest Road of Greenwood and Mirkwood. Each side of them the immense and ancient trees stalked into green shadows and nightingales sang when dusk came down. In the vale beyond, a wide river flowed, strong and muscular, and the wild mountains loomed, closer now, darkly threatening. It was rumoured that Melkor had, in ancient times, raised the barrier of these mountains, the Towers of Mist, to hinder Oromë’s riding. They were a sombre, jagged range, pine-clad to their skirts, clothed in grey rock and shale further up. When the clouds cleared, their peaks showed sharp and jagged. To take such a great number, laden with wagons and beasts, across them would be no easy task, though any one of them save the youngest children would have essayed it easily enough unhindered.

Oromë left them then, to find a route across the mountains and the _Quendi_ made a great encampment. Some wandered away, misliking the great, misty heights of the mountains that frowned down at them, shadow-cloaked.

Edenel, prowling the outskirts of the camp, heard some declare they would go no further, while others drifted away back South and East. This time there were many, lead, Edenel saw by Lenwë, of Olwë’s people. They went south down the river and though some looked back, none returned to the encampment. The rest settled, hunted, made cook-fires and raised tents. Edenel watched them, struggling with the desire to go down to them. (He described it to Claire as an addiction, as he came to understand such things. Or of fighting against one; the hunger and thirst of _needing_ something with an almost savage desire). But, unlike an addict who might try to avoid what he craved, Edenel could not resist looking upon it. None of them could.

One dawn, with a summer mist hovering over the river, he saw, and for the first time, his twin.

He had deliberately avoided even a distant glimpse of Finwë, had to force himself to remember how it had been between them before he left. He never did know how long he had been in Utumno, but in that time Finwë had changed. He held himself now like a leader — or rather, as the _only_ leader of the Tatyar. It was in his bearing, his walk. _He is free now, and coming into his power._ A gold circlet gleamed on his brow.

His expression seemed oddly shuttered as he walked to the riverbank, stripped his clothes and waded in. The sight of his body, so dear, so familiar and (still) arousing, stuck him Edenel like a fall of ice and heat from head to heels. The hush of the willow leaves that concealed him seemed to mock his memories. He wondered what that still, closed face hid, and then with a blow, realised that he _did not know_ , that their connection was utterly severed, and forever. Finwë might have been a stranger.

Turning away, Edenel paused as two more figures stepped out of the mist: Míriel and Indis. Their heads were close together, and they were talking softly, smiling as they came to the bank, the little river-beach below. Their cloaks and gowns slipped down over slim shoulders, and they waded into the water, long hair floating on the current. Finwë drew them close and the lithe, wet bodies pressed together.

They had forgotten him, or no — they had put Edenel from their minds. Finwë had what he had always wanted.

And then he did turn away, vanishing into the gentle mists, a coward perhaps, but he found he could not look upon them any longer.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

‘Indis had changed a great deal when I saw her in Valinor,’ Edenel said, stretching his legs out. ‘But it was Valinor and the Valar that changed her. She did not speak to me. I was told that she means to fight in the Last Battle, though, so something within her has awakened to what she was.’

Claire said, ‘They couldn’t have forgotten.’

‘No, but to them, I think I _was_ dead, or so corrupted that they thought death would be better. No doubt they were told, in detail, of the monsters the Valar and Maia found in Utumno.’

The wind had risen as Edenel spoke; not the cold moan of the northerly gale but the mild bluster of the winds that came off the sea. There was the drip of melting snow outside the windows.

‘I know they had responsibilities, but the fact they didn’t look for you...’ Claire sat up, turned to face him. ‘I like to think — we all do, don’t we? —‘ She smiled wryly. ‘I would have searched for you.’

‘You have done more than that. You have been with me, in a way. And I know it hasn’t been easy.’ He grimaced. ‘It has been a horror.’

‘I didn’t expect it to be easy.’

She rubbed her hands on her knees, then rose. ‘Some of it felt — I don’t know. It’s not like _deja vu_ , exactly, but it should have been completely alien. Maybe it was because I with with you, linked to you, but —‘ She trailed off.  
  
‘I only hope _they_ never felt you,’ Edenel picked up his whiskey glass, choked over the mellow spirit as Claire said, ‘Culina.’  
  
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as at the breath of a cold wind. A wind from Utumno. For a moment, Culina’s face as it had been when her hair was Claire’s rose -gold, her eyes the same grey, shimmered beside Claire’s like a dream-phantom. His heart rose to close his throat. But what connection could there be between the two? Culina had never birthed children. None of them had, after Utumno. Was it just the likeness? Perhaps in Mortals that shade of hair was common, although in this world, people dyed their hair all shades, so one could not tell. Among the _Quendi_ though, only Culina had that rare rose-gold; Mahtan’s hair was a darker red.  
  
He forced the whiskey down. ‘What about her?’  
  
‘I’m not sure, I was just thinking that she was courageous to overcome what happened to her. To want to feel. To live.’  
  
‘We all had to relearn that, yes. Although—‘  
  
She smiled. ‘Although?’  
  
‘I’m getting ahead of myself,’ he smiled back. ‘Stay by the fire, I’ll go and make some tea.’  
  
  
  
A tendril of ivy tapped against the kitchen window. Edenel opened the back door and felt the rough air bluster around him, so much milder than the biting wind that had brought down the blizzard. There was a fine mist of rain in it. The Moon shone ghostly behind a rack of clouds blowing in from the sea.  
  
Claire — and Culina.  
  
He caught himself suddenly with a curse. What in the Hells was he doing wondering about Claire’s connection to Culina, when he could _know_? It had been so short a time after his ascension that he came here, he had never tested his new powers, or not to any extent, fearing Sauron would sense them. But to know the answer to his question, he only needed to open his mind, to look _within_.  
  
He stepped into the garden, into the damp slap of the wind and closed his eyes, fixed them in his mind.  
  
Culina.  
  
Claire.  
  
A spiral of light, a double helix, seemed to form around the images of their faces. It revolved, lengthened, an edifice of glittering beauty. Other faces shimmered into view, faded away, and the great chain of life grew through the generations of Claire’s ancestors. Other streams of life winked in and out, with faces that he knew — except not _here_. These were other realities, other worlds. And, too the one he had come from.  
  
Another face glowed into being, clear as a lamp on a dark night: a woman, with hair like Culina’s before Utumno, the same grey eyes, that proud, distant, falcon-look in her eyes. The movement delved down, as if seeking, and collided into another strand...And he knew, he knew...  
  
Collided. Came together with _his own_ life spiral.  
  
In the cool caress of the gale, his face, his whole body burned. An earthquake shook him. An artery of light sprang across the sky and the ridges of the mountains were etched out of darkness in odd, eldricht relief. Winter thunder slammed, echoing in the stone.  
  
 _Vanimórë._ There was an avalanche within him, and he was part of it, sent pouring and fuming in wreckage, flung down from a pinnacle of certainty he had always known. Buried. Voiceless. A certainty that was a lie, a mistaken belief. He could not breath. His legs folded and he knelt; the melting snow soaked through to his skin.  
  
 _Is this true_?  
  
He needed no verification, but wanted to hear it validated.  
  
 _Yes,_ came Vanimórë voice, heat and cold tempered. _Culina bore thy child, Edenel. In this world, and in the one we both come from._  
  
 _But I died here! We all died here!_  
  
 _Not all,_ Vanimórë corrected gently. _Thou wert the last, and thought all were dead, but Culina was injured, unconscious. And the Valar and their servants did not check to see if life was extinct. Culina found her way out of Utumno. She was — is — a strong woman. She made her way West where she met Melian._  
  
 _But Doriath was not founded then, not until after the Great Journey._  
  
 _But Melian was there already. Culina met her before she met Elu Thingol in Nan Elmoth, and her women, those who had come from Valinor with her, cared for the child until Doriath was founded._  
  
 _But she never told me, in our world._  
  
 _Why would she? It was her choice to conceive a child. And she knew that the lives of the Ithiledhil would not be suited for the raising of a baby. So she left it among people who could raise it in peace. I think the Ithiledhil had no children from choice rather than anything Melkor did._  
  
 _Doriath._ Edenel pressed his hands to his face. _But Melian was serving the Valar._  
  
 _Yes, she was, but she had little choice. What slave chooses, after all? None of the Maia who were enslaved were evil, but they were all bound, just as Melkor bound Maia to serve him. Melian wanted to help Culina and she did._  
  
 _It was not the same, in our world._  
  
Edenel remembered how, after their sojourn in the great southern forest of _Taur-im-Duinath_ , they had ventured north again and travelled nigh to the boundaries of Doriath. They were not on a forced march, and some of the _Ithiledhil_ were of the Nelyar and had been drawn to Doriath. None of them essayed to enter the forest or had tried to penetrate its girdle — or so Edenel had thought — but they lingered on the margins. And Culina had vanished from winter to the late summer.  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ were a close-knit clan but not bound together at the hip. They wandered at whiles (save in times of war) and always returned, linked in one another’s minds so that no-one was concerned when they drifted away. They would always return.  
As Culina had gone and come back. Edenel had known she was unharmed, and so was not worried. And he thought now that the Girdle of Melian, or Melian herself, had deflected him, so that he had not felt Culina during the birth. Her child. His child. Claire’s ancestor. That child had grown and also bore children and so down that immense life-spiral to Claire. No wonder she was with him in his memories, and more.  
  
Finwë had been passionate in his desire for a child. Edenel had not felt that urge, but the time had never been right. He could see how his responsibilities toward those who did mate and bear children had taken precedence, had been a kind of surrogate. His desire for fatherhood had been dampened by his lack of desire for a mate — although had Míriel and Indis quickened to his seed, he would have been glad. (More, he would have been delighted, thinking that his premonitions could be overcome, were shown as nothing more than night-shadows). But then, even at the end, he had been too fixated with Finwë. As it was, he had veered aside from the urge to procreate, and become a provider and protector of parents. Had there been no Dark God in the North, who knew? No doubt he would have mated and fathered children and loved them.  
  
And what if he had known about Culina? Her child?  
  
 _Melian would never have allowed thee within the Girdle,_ Vanimórë told him. _She came to love the babe, and thee, chieftain of the Ithiledhil and more, twin to Finwë, would have not been welcome. Not because she thought of thee as monsters, but because too many questions would have been asked. Culina confided in Melian, but she told no-one else._  
  
 _And still, I fathered a child._ And that child...  
  
Finwë had sired mighty sons, and Edenel loved them — adored them. But he had fathered a daughter, the image of Culina. She had never known her birth-mother or her father; they had never held her, in this world, or in the other, seen her grow, walk, talk, laugh...  
  
He felt as if an old wound, long sealed over, had ripped with a gush of blood and pain.  
  
Light flared again over the mountains and he raised his head to it. His scream was silent, but it seemed to shake his very bones.  
  
And then Claire was there, her hand on his shoulder, the scent of summer flowers in winter. Her voice reached him over a chasm.  
‘...Edenel? What is it? What’s wrong?’ Her voice was urgent. She tugged at his shoulder. He heard her through the storm in his heart, the rush of blood in his ears.  
  
He came to his feet. The wind tossed Claire’s hair, beaded it with moisture. Her brow was pinched as if at a pain.  
  
‘Edenel?’ Maglor came through the kitchen door, followed by Coldagnir who gave him one long blink of molten eyes. Maglor’s shone silver in the night. Edenel touched his shoulder, touched Claire’s.  
‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I have to tell thee something.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	16. ~ A Night of Heat ~

  
  
  
  


**~ A Night of Heat ~**

 

 

 

 

~ Edenel stood near the window where the darkness roared beyond and spots of rain misted the glass. The others sat alert, straight on the edges of their seats. At last, Edenel turned to them.  
‘I always thought,’ he began. ‘That after Utumno, none of the _Ithiledhil_ could sire or bear children.’

Maglor nodded, his arm around Claire’s shoulders. ‘Yes, so you have said.’

Edenel pressed his hands to his face. ‘It was a supposition. Where I come from and in this world too, at least one of us — Culina — bore a child.’ He dropped his hands, looked at Claire. ‘Here, I died in Utumno. Culina did not, she crawled out of the wreckage, carrying the seed of a child in her womb.’ Claire’s eyes widened. Edenel said gently: ‘It is why thou hast been with me in my memories, Claire. Thou art descended from Culina, and from me. We—she — gave birth to a daughter.’

The fire flared, sparks shooting up the chimney, leaving gold sparks on the blackened stone. Claire came to her feet, fingers pressed to her mouth.

‘I would never have known, had I not looked to _see._ And he told me, Vanimórë _told_ me thou didst have Elven blood.’ He had known. ‘It was why he let me come. Perhaps it was why I _wanted_ to come here, or one of reasons. I know about thee, Maglor, nothing about Claire save what I saw in the Portal.’

Maglor had risen too. ‘It makes sense now,’ he said. ‘Why Claire was able to be with you — more than simple support as you recounted your history. More than empathy, I was concerned. I could _feel_ the pain, the horror — everything. I was worried for her, for you also. Yet it seemed she could bear it, that she wanted to encompass this.’

Claire nodded. ‘Yes. The first time, it was a shock, I admit — more than a shock.’ She swallowed. ‘But I didn’t want to withdraw. Perhaps I couldn’t have,’ she added.

She came to Edenel, drew is head down and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry you never knew your child, in either universe.’ Her arms went around him, held him. He felt the strong, rapid beating of her heart.

‘I know why Culina would have concealed it in my own universe,’ he said. ‘Our lives simply were not made for the rearing of children.’ But he could not conceal his own loss.

‘What happened in your universe?’ Maglor asked.

‘Culina met with Melian. It was before Melian met Thingol, before Doriath was founded, and the child was looked after. The same happened here: Melian helped Culina and then adopted the baby. She grew in peace for a long time, gave birth to her own children, before Doriath was—‘ Maglor raised a hand; his face glowed in the firelight. His eyes shone molten. Defiant, undefeated.  
‘Before we attacked it,’ he finished. ‘I know. And _you_ know I would do the same again in a heartbeat.’ And between then flashed the knowledge, bright and bitter, that Edenel’s daughter might have been one of those that fell to the swords of the Fëanorions.

‘Macalaurë,’ Edenel spoke his name lovingly. ‘I know. And I cast no blame. It was war. What I meant is, our daughter was free to grow and live and love and have children, and that comes down to Claire. My daughter’s descendants survived. She turned in his arms and beckoned to Maglor, and he came, was enclosed by both of them, Edenel and Claire.  
‘Thinks’t thou _I_ would not have done the same?’ Edenel murmured. ‘Had I been with thee, nothing could have prevented me.’ He kissed Maglor’s brow. Over his shoulder, Coldagnir’s eyes scorched. Alone. But then, he was the god of a lone star, and burned in solitary splendour.

 _I will get thee a drink,_ he said and left in a lilt of shimmering hair.

‘My blood,’ Edenel said, with a stone lodged in his throat, and kissed Claire’s hair. He said he did not weep, and it was true he rarely had after Utumno: when he heard of Finwë’s death, so far away, and realised he _had not felt it,_ when he learned of Fingolfin’s suicidal charge to Angband, of Fingon’s death under Gothmog’s sword, later, when Fëanor’s sons died, one by one, and Maglor passed out of knowledge. Celebrimbor killed, Gil-galad falling...both at Sauron’s hand.  
He had not known them, any of them, but they were descended from the twin he had adored and from the beginning, had been drawn to them. And so, a handful of times he had wept in thousands of years. Now, the tears came in a sudden storm, a summer downpour, scalding his cheeks. The arms around him tightened.

‘I’m glad to know it,’ Claire told him. ‘I’ve been with you in Utumno. I’m proud to be descended from you, from Culina.’

He said. ‘I am the one who is proud. Both of thee and of Culina, for seizing _life._ ’

Coldagnir pushed open the door carrying a a tray of four tulip-shaped glasses and an aristocratic gold-foiled bottle.  
‘I think this should be celebrated,’ he smiled as he eased out the cork with a _pop_ and poured. Under the creamy mousse golden bubbles rose.  
‘To blood,’ Maglor said.

Claire’s eyes sparkled with tears, but she smiled through them as she raised her glass. ‘To family,’ she said.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The morning came like ash and smoke.

They had talked, Edenel, Claire and Maglor, until near dawn, then Claire had gone to bed, or to think. Edenel, in a woollen hat that concealed his white hair, went out as the light came, misty, louring.

The mountains still held their cloaks of snow but the low cloud ghosted over them like cerements, reminding him of the Ered Engrim and the war clouds that had come down on them. The loch skittered under the gale that moaned in the huge yew, buffeted the thick walls of the Manse. The snow was slush on the road, dark tarmac showing in long strips.

‘Didst thou know?’ he asked as Coldagnir came up behind him.

‘Yes, I knew. Edenel, it is easy for me; thou art not yet accustomed to being a god. And had I told thee, had Vanimórë, still thou wouldst have looked to see.’

Edenel glared into the burnished eyes for a moment then, reluctantly nodded. ‘I would of course. I feel a fool for not seeing it before. Claire was so much like Culina, but the Culina of before Utumno and so many thousands of years separated the two.’

‘Thou art angry,’ Coldagnir observed.

‘That I never knew my daughter? Yes. But in this universe I died and in the one we come from—‘

‘Claire exists in our reality,’ Coldagnir told him. ‘But she never met Maglor because Maglor and most of the Elves left Middle-earth long before she was born.’

‘When we return for Dagor Dagorath I must speak to Culina. Yes, I could do so now, but I want to talk to her face-to-face. And after —‘

Colganir’s beautiful face was stern. ‘While I do not _know_ , Vanimórë believes that Dagor Dagorath will affect every reality, Edenel. Everything is connected.’

The wind slapped at them. Coldagnir was glamoured, but Edenel could see the great steam of his flaming hair shredded in a war-banner of living fire. For a moment, he thought of that night of no moon in deep winter. The _Ithiledhil_ had been far to the East, in Caranthir’s lands, but he had seen Thangorodrim belch flame, seen it running down across Ard Galen.  
‘What is thy meaning?’

‘Only that the worlds after Dagor Dagorath will not be the same.’ He blazed a smile. ‘Thou wert thinking of it, of travelling to _that_ world, to meet Claire.’

Edenel had to smile. ‘Wouldst thou not consider it?’

‘Of course.’

‘And yet, I do not want to leave this one.’ He looked at the grey loch, the shrouded mountains. ‘Not that I like it, or most of it. I can see the shape of the world I left, yet there are so few places here that do not reek of pollution. Mortals have failed in their stewardship of Arda, if they ever realised they had one. The price they pay will be heavy. No, it is not this world, but Maglor and Claire I do not want to leave behind.’

‘We will come back,’ Coldagnir said. ‘For those we leave, the time we are gone may be brief. Time does not run the same here.’

‘Yes.’ Then: ‘I never looked to see.’

‘If thy daughter was slain by the Fëanorions.’

‘So long ago, and they under a doom that they could not break — or not then. No, I did not look, but I wonder if Culina knew? It is one of the things I will ask her.’

‘It might be better not to know,’ Coldagnir suggested.

‘Perhaps it would. And yet I want to know. Privately.’

Coldagnir stared at him; when he was roused or enraged the black pupils vanished and one was surveyed by twin suns that blazed, exploded in scarlet and gold and flame-red.  
‘Knowest thou what I used to compare thee to, in Utumno?’ He laid hand, hot in the mild air, on Edenel’s cheek.

‘I never considered the Balrogs as thinking at all, only of obeying orders, of power and the inflicting of pain.’

‘And thou art right. Sometimes, the rare times that I sleep, or what passes as sleep, I dream that I am back there, under the crushing might of Melkor’s mind, the terrible enjoyment I found in pain, giving it, receiving it. The horror. And then I wake. I thought of thee as an embodiment of ice, of winter, immaculate and cold. I imagined even my fire would break against thee in vain.’ He set his lips against the corner of Edenel’s mouth. ‘I was not mightier than Gothmog or Lungorthin, not as a Balrog, but of all of them, my fire burned the hottest.’

‘I remember,’ Edenel whispered. ‘Burns that scored me and healed, over and over.’

‘Yes. So intrigued they were at thy changing.’ Coldagnir’s breath smelt of cinnamon, of hot, mulled wine. ‘They never did know what happened. Melkor, naturally, wanted to believe it was him.’

‘Naturally.’

‘It was not.’

Edenel turned, into what was almost a kiss. ‘And thou doth?’

‘Not then, Snow Prince. Now, yes.’

Because he had died, insofar as a god could die, and returned to his natural state, blazing, confident, arrogant. His true estate.

Edenel dug his fingers into the hot muscle of Coldagnir’s shoulders. ‘Tell me.’

‘Thou hast always regretted thou wert not the father of Fëanor and Fingolfin.’ Coldagnir copied his action, holding him by the shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, those two are far more like thee than Finwë. In some realities thou art indeed their father, but —‘ he removed one hand to press a finger against Edenel’s mouth. ‘Spiritually as one might say, thou art their father in every universe. Fëanor’s father, the Flame Imperishable... _No-one_ , not even Eru knows whence it sprang. The possibility of it perhaps existed before any universe, in the nothingness of _before_. But nevertheless, even formless, without body, it knew thee. Fire calls to fire, always. And so he reached out to thee and thou to him.’

Edenel breathed hard. Fëanor.  
‘Does _he_ know?’

‘In some worlds, he is aware of something, for he saw thee in vision or dream.’

Edenel leaned his brow against Coldagnir’s. ‘So much proceeds from Fëanor. I would not wish anyone to have been with me, physically, mentally, in Utumno. Not Fëanor, not Claire, although now I understand why she was, and why he would be.’

‘The universes overlap, much more frequently than we might imagine, leaving their scent, their shadow, a movement out of the corner of one’s eyes.’

‘Yes...’ Edenel thought of his dreams. Coldagnir drew back.  
‘They are not dreams, Edenel. They are other realities. But we cannot become distracted,’ he said urgently. ‘Not yet. We have other things to concern ourselves with. And here, thou hast found Maglor, and thine own descendent, and _here_ Sauron is at large in the world again.’

‘I know and yes, I have found those I love. What hast _thou_ found?’

‘A path toward forgiveness, perhaps. A long one.’ He smiled faintly. ‘No, Maglor does not forgive me.’

‘He will not, not yet.’

‘No. Thou hast not. Not truly.’

The wind ploughed the loch. Edenel took a long breath, tasted distant ocean salt on his tongue.  
‘But I understand. I was there. Maglor was not.’

Coldagnir slanted him a wry look. ‘Knows thou why Fëanor forgave me?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Because of Fingolfin, because I took one of the crystals from his shield after he fell. Fëanor forgave me not for himself, but for his half-brother.’

Edenel relaxed. ‘Of course he would.’ And: ‘I miss them. And that is one of the reasons I want to return here, to see this to the end, for the dead to walk out of death.’

A raven called _pruk pruk_ , like a mockery, or a warning. Black wings flapped overhead. Edenel knew there were superstitions surrounding the bird, but all he himself knew of them was that they gathered where there was battle to feed on carrion, which was simply their nature. He watched its flight.

‘But not truly dead,’ he said. ‘Prisoners of a war they were foredoomed to lose. And never forgotten. Nothing is ever forgotten.’

‘Nothing. And in any universe. I am bound to Fëanor, and through him to Fingolfin and to Maglor. And so. I must come back.’

‘We both must.’

They stood watching the wind thrash the water, the pouring cloud over the mountains then, as one, turned to retrace their steps.

‘Thou wilt have to tell Claire about the heat of the _Ithiledhil_ ,’ Coldagnir said as they walked up the drive. The ancient yew caught the gale in its branches, moaned a lament. ‘Why thou must go away at certain times. Or feel thou must.’

‘Claire, and Maglor, too, yes.’

‘How is it?’

Edenel raised a brow. ‘We are not animals. It is an imperative, but one we can control if need be. We have had to, at times, and I did not want Maglor to be alone while Claire visited her family.’

‘Or left with me.’

‘No.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Claire was sleeping, Maglor said. She came down for lunch, and in the afternoon they practiced with the knives. Edenel thought there was a difference in her demeanour, in the way she approached the lesson: she carried the knives, the one or both together, with greater assurance; her movements were more fluid. Again, he was reminded of Culina, the lovely, laughing artist who had become such a lethal warrior. Not from choice. None of them had really had a choice.

 

 

Dusk came as the dawn had, windy, smoky-grey, melting into a night of foaming wind. They were quiet, all of them, over dinner, remaining at the table once it had been cleared. Coldagnir washed up, then left by the back door. Maglor’s eyes followed him and returned to Edenel.

‘There is something you should know, the both of thee,’ Edenel said slowly. ‘Coldagnir already does. It comes in the next part of my story. Shall we go into the living room?’

They closed the door on the intermittent clatter of the letterbox, the draft that cooled the hallway. Edenel would have taken a chair, but Claire and Maglor both guided him to the sofa, sitting one each side. Claire took his hand between hers, and Maglor set a hand on his knee.

‘I was speaking to Coldagnir earlier,’ Edenel said, and to Claire: ‘Have you told Maglor of your dreams?’

‘Of the people I don’t know, and yet do?’ She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’Maglor affirmed. ‘And I have had them too. We know they are not dreams, Edenel.’

‘No. Other universes. Other versions of ourselves. I was thinking of going to find Claire in the one I come from, the one where you did not meet her, because in that one, most of the Elves had long departed Middle-earth.’

Maglor’s eyes narrowed, silver. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I would want to do that, too.’ Claire’s fingers tightened.  
‘Dagor Dagorath will effect all the worlds, Coldagnir thinks,’ he said. ‘But after, after, I will return here, and to there, as well.’

‘Wilt thou ask me...Maglor in thine own universe, to go with thee.’ Maglor flashed a smile across to Claire.

‘Of course I would,’ Edenel replied, himself smiling. ‘And once I have explained to him, I will.’ _Do not think I do not see what is between thee._ For Maglor alone, who lowered long eyelids. ‘But Coldagnir was also right to say that in this one, we cannot become distracted. To be frank with thee, there is too much power among the four of us — and I include you in that, Claire.’ (She looked startled). ‘Sauron knows the taste of your blood, which devolves from me, and from his own son, and himself. And we are not always going to be able to find safe houses, like this.’ Maglor looked up, agreed.

‘And so I need to tell this part of the story here, where it _is_ safe.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Oromë made or found a path over the mountains. This, in latter Ages, would be the High Pass above Imladris. (‘We must have passed through Imladris itself, where it would be.’)  
The host of the Teleri remained a long while East of the Mountains, but the _Ithiledhil_ followed the Minyar and Tatyar. They kept well back, knowing they could easily catch up. The Mountains were dark, and mists clung to their stony peaks where snow lingered in icy corries, but the way was not difficult. The wagons had been abandoned, most of the gear being carried.  
At last, the path began to descend down a track where the rock dropped sheer and water could be heard thundering and wrangling below.

Soon they were enclosed by trees again, first dark pine, then the oaks and ash of the foothills. They crossed river later called Bruinen where, one day, the Last Bridge would stand.

Eriador in those days was forested, save on its rough moorland and the road they forged, the great East-West road, took them day after day under sun-fretted leaves, glades where great deer roamed, and so on — and on to the Ered Luin, lower than the Towers of Mist, lapped with forest, bright with rivers, and to the borders of Beleriand.  
  
Beleriand, to the borders of the sea. The great exodus swung south past the borders of the mighty forest to be called Doriath, and crossed the Long Wall of Andram into the South, and so down to the coast, to the Bay of Balar.  
  
It was strange (Edenel said) to pass through lands that long after, would be places or renown, of infamy, of death, of legend. Autumn burned the birch trees and willows to gold; the birds of winter began to fly south but when winter came it lay lightly, a pause, little more, before the stirring.  
  
It was the first time any of the _Quendi_ saw the ocean, though Helcar had been vast enough. Belegaer was different, the winter seas heavy, a rolling thunder against the shore. It was darker, wilder than Helcar, and one could not see what lay beyond except, at times, when the air was clear, one might discern the white peaks of mountains far West, so distant they seemed as floating clouds.  
  
It was said, long after, that the _Quendi_ feared the ocean; they did not, though certainly they were awed by its majesty, its changing face under sun or storm.  
  
Oromë left them then, and a encampments were set up. Food was plentiful, both the sea and land fertile. It was not surprising, Edenel thought after, that many should choose to remain on the coasts. But how, he wondered, did the Valar mean to transport those who wished across the sea to Valinor?  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ themselves made their own camp northward in a thick belt of woodland. Not far away, was a small cover of white-gold sand. Beyond, in the bay, a great island lay, green and lush, rising to hills. Its white cliffs caught the sun at times.  
  
The murmur of the sea reached the _Ithiledhil_ when they rested, constant, timeless, soothing even in its anger. Sometimes, when rousing from sleep, Edenel remembered Helcar and the first sound he had heard when waking from eternity.  
  
They were some five or six leagues from the main encampment, but the _Quendi_ did not penetrate the woodland, though bare with winter. The _Ithiledhil_ had tents they could easily fold up, their camp could vanish into nothing in moments, but it was never necessary — though at times they did see hunting parties from a distance.  
  
Edenel never sought to see Finwë again. He did, at rare times glimpse Indis or Míriel, usually together, but so far distant that their gold and silver heads were mere bright stars under cloud or sun.  
  
Spring came, urgent, fecund, flushing the land to green, the sea to aquamarine frothed with with white. There was a feeling of heat in the air. Sometimes, patrolling far, Edenel heard the sounds of sex, but apart from the one time with Culina, he and all the _Ithiledhil_ seemed frozen in winter. Sex meant a release of inhibitions — a release of emotion as when they had accepted that they were free of Utumno.  
Except they were not free of it. They never would be.  
  
  
  
The Sea God came with the summer. Even from a distance, the _Ithiledhil_ heard the roar of the ocean, saw the great figure emerge from the foam. At first he was gigantic, towering over the sea, wearing it in all its hues from cerulean to the grey of winter, then he seemed to diminish in size, so that the cliffs hid him.  
Impressive, but Edenel had seen Melkor and felt no reverence or awe, only a deep mistrust. Yes, the god would be able to transport the _Quendi_ across the ocean that was his province; the question was: how?  
  
Edenel saw no sign of the god departing and so, that night, all the _Ithiledhil_ went closer, moving as silently as a drift of snow across the land. Their caution was unnecessary; no guards had been posted.  
  
The _Quendi_ were gathered on and around the great beach near their camp. They shone in the luminous dark, as did the god, all the shifting shades of the sea and he was speaking to Ingwë and to Finwë. Edenel, laid flat on the cliff top, white hair bound by black cloth, lowered his brow to the tough grass for a moment, heart shuddering. He could feel, like floodwater damming itself behind logs, the need to scream, to _release_ his pain and horror and grief. _Not yet. Not yet. Abide. Wait._ His fingers dug into the turf. He breathed.  
  
Something, it was clear, was happening, as the days lengthened. The _Quendi_ began to strike camp, gathering their gear. In groups, they came down to the shore when the tide was out, leaving a silken sweep of wet sand. Ingwë was at the forefront, his people behind him, his daughter Anairë at his shoulder.  
  
The Sea God appeared from a flurry of foam and spray, immense again, towering over them and Edenel thought, _No. No. Do not trust him._ He waded into the sea between beach and the offshore island, and raised his hands.  
  
...And the sea parted. With a deep, resounding roar it drew back each side of a wide path, revealing water-smoothed stone draped with seaweed, fish flapping in sudden shock, eels darting. Each side of this path towered walls of water rising higher and higher until they cast a gloom of darkness topped by stark white foam.  
  
The god gestured and slowly, at first, the Minyar stepped onto the wet sand and began to walk. The water fumed and broiled above them, casting rainbows across them. They navigated the rocks, the beached fish, the glimmering weeds — walking more confidently, Ingwë’s head as white as the sea-froth. And then Finwë moved and Edenel cried out: _No_! Oh, please my heart, my brother, do not abandon me.  
  
And Finwë hesitated, his head turned and Edenel saw his face, white and beautiful under the raven cloud of hair, the silver-black flash of his eyes. Edenel closed his eyes, lowered his head. When he looked again, Finwë was walking, Indis and Míriel beside him. The shimmer of Míriels hair, star-silver, was the last Edenel saw of them.  
  
The sun lowered, striking the water into spangles of gold. Edenel could no longer see the _Quendi_. The last of them had vanished into the valley of the sea, headed to the island. The massive walls of water still hung, impossibly, over their road. Yet he watched, watched, until, when the sank below the ocean there was a crash and explosion of spray, and the sea heaved as the god released it, let it fall.  
All night it moaned, strange waves piling against the sea, the cliffs until, at dawn, it stilled.  
  
They were gone.  
  
Edenel felt hollowed out; it was a grief like death. He saw it in the eyes of the others. Yet they lingered. Was the island to be the _Quendi’s_ new home?  
  
It was not.  
  
The world seemed to groan as in childbirth, and the ocean... _shuddered_ , the land echoing it so that the _Ithiledhil_ fought to keep their balance.  
The island itself was moving; the sea god, at this distance still visible, huge, shining as an ever-breaking wave, pulled it from its deep foundations save for one broken off point that remained where the anguished seas raged.  
  
It left a churning wake like some vast boat that beat and roared on the ears. Slowly, the island slid westward toward those far-off floating mountains. The world split in two: Behind the moving island clouds formed, black, heavily-bellied; before it, the sun shone from blue onto blue. Inexorably, the island faded from sight, swallowed by the storm.  
  
The storm blew itself out, eventually, but the horizon showed ragged black clouds. The _Ithiledhil_ walked down to the encampment. Only pale grass from the tents, fire rings, showed that anyone had been there, and new growth would soon cover them, leaving no trace.  
  
‘Edenel?’ Amathon came to him in the windy dusk. ‘What shall we do now? These lands are kindly and beautiful, but —‘  
  
‘I know.’ He gripped his friend’s shoulder. But. Too close to the sight of their abandonment. ‘Not all are gone. Olwë and Elwë’s people have not come this far.’ And there were some of them among the _Ithiledhil_. ‘We will retrace our steps.’  
  
  
  
In the full brilliance of spring they turned their back on the sea that separated (most) of them from the ones they loved. It was the hardest road Edenel had ever walked and he saw the strain on the other’s faces.  
  
Between the dark highlands of Taur-en-Faroth and the willow-woods of Nan Tathren they were able to ford the Narog, then followed the muscular Sirion north toward where the long ridge of the Andram bulked against the sky. They could have swum the Sirion, swift though it flowed, but if the Nelyar were following the route taken by the Minyar and Tatyar, the _Ithiledhil_ would miss them. But the could see not _Quendi_ moving along the Andram; there was no scent of them in the soft south wind.  
  
They followed the Wall to its end, where it slumped down into the rich lands at Randal, its easternmost point. In the clear air before a spring shower, Edenel saw the lone hill of Amon Ereb rising smoothly out of the plain. A fine location for a fortress, he thought, commanding views all around and within sight of the River Gelion. A wolf’s-brush weltered through his body. Cloud shadows raced across the land. For a moment, he seemed to see high towers, banners streaming in the wind. Then, the rain fell.  
  
  
  
He lead the _Ithiledhil_ northward and it was here that they found the Nelyar, whom had crossed the Ered Luin and the Gelion and were encamped close to the vast forest of Doriath. It became clear why, after a time, they had stopped: Elwë was lost, had vanished and though sought for, had not yet been found. Edenel, who had been friends with Elwë, listened to the concern of his people. They refused to go further without Elwë, were willing to wait as long as necessary. The land was rich, and there was no taste of peril in the winds, no sign that some cold shadow had come down from the North.  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ secretly searched for him too, even deep into the woods, but when Edenel reached Nan Elmoth, he was unable to penetrate it. There was a subtle power here that reminded him of the water-spirit, yet with an edge and alienness to it that caught in his throat. He withdrew, troubled, as the nightingales song resonated through the tall trees, plangent, enchanting. _Come,_ they seemed to call, but the caution was greater than the enticement.  
  
At length, Olwë and his folk gathered themselves and pressed West. Some would always remain on the shores, in the havens they named Brithombar and Eglarest, and taking Círdan as their lord. The _Ithiledhil_ did not see the departure of Olwë, because they turned southward the next spring and came to the deep forest of Taur-im-Duinath.  
  
There had been no time for healing. Edenel had sensed the need for it growing daily, but it required a place of safety and absolute privacy. Under the mighty oaks, their leaves flushed green-gold, in the grassy glades, beside the creeks and waters of Taur-im-Duinath, they found their place, and their time.  
  
  
  
  
  
He came out of memory like a swimmer emerging from a deep dive. The fire gleamed like a Balrog’s eyes, sunk to smouldering embers. He was burning up, the collar of his sweater too tight. He heard his voice speaking as he tugged at it, but it seemed to come from far away, across the gulf of the Ages. And the room and fire were distant, melting into the pillared tress of a great forest, grass freckled by sunlight splashes.  
  
He had expected the release to be painful, to be unconstrained; it would have provided no catharsis otherwise. What he did not realise, was the extent of the wound; how much the _Ithiledhil_ had concealed, locked away, compressed within them. One did not want to look into that abyss. And yet it was there, a chasm under their feet, wherever they walked. It mattered nothing that Utumno was destroyed, the chasm remained, a void across the world.  
  
It was not the first time he had partaken in wild sex, even numbering several partners. (Never with Finwë) It was Edenel’s preference. Finwë had been less abandoned, save at the end when the resentment and even hatred had surfaced.  
  
This was on another plane entirely; it came down on them like a storm, in blaze of star-white eyes and loosened hair, then long limbs stripped of clothing. It was a convulsion like a dying body, but this was the opposite of death, it was a terrible, glorious admittance of life —or of their lives after Utumno.  
  
Edenel tried to explain to Claire and Maglor that this was where it had begun, because it had been almost too much, something that had to be controlled and released only at certain times but, once it was imprinted upon them, it bound them as surely as if it had been born with them, part of their natures. As he had said to Coldagnir, they were not animals, they could control it and had needed to, at times because it required time and privacy. But when the release became possible, it took them even harder.  
  
There was only one law, enshrined into the _Ithiledhil’s_ very souls: they would never take anyone who was unwilling. Among them, it needed no words, but was understood that they had all endured rape and so must never force their lust upon anyone.  
  
Edenel turned toward the door, but it felt as if he were moving underwater; the very light was odd, their faces too vivid, auras glowing, eyes burning. He needed to move, to leave the Manse, lose himself on the mountains, in the storm and the wind until, like the storm, the heat blew itself out.  
  
Hands caught at him, slim strong, running up under his sweater, pulling it, until it was over his head. He saw Claire’s eyes, the grey swallowed by the blackness of the pupils, Maglor’s, shining like mercury in the dimness. The blazing sunfire of Coldagnir’s.  
  
And he was lost, as completely as that first time under the full cry of spring, among the small shy flowers of the forest glades, the scent of bruised grass, _and honeysuckle and summer_. The heat subsumed him, became him. He was vaguely conscious that they left the room, climbed the stairs, found a bedroom, dark with the wind roaring outside.  
  
Hot, silken skin under his palms, the curve of a waist, the hardness of nipples. He thought of Culina, but knew it was Claire. Their actions though, were the same: the heat and demand without reserve, without shyness, _knowing_ what they wanted, supple and wanton and superb. Red gold hair flung around her shoulders, his own white splashing across it. The red-heat of her, moist under the glide of his fingers.  
  
No words, only their cries as their loins joined, heads flung back, and then, her face lost behind a flood of black hair, lips joined, gasping, _ordering_ , untamed, driven to the very heart by pure need. The caul that protects every soul ripped into tatters. Only the driving need. And, at the same time, himself taken, hard, hurting until it transcended pain. Claire upon Maglor, hair tossing, flesh glossed like the brush of gold, and upon him, as Culina had been, eyes wide and focussed upon that one point in herself where the orgasm built and built, over and over. The gems at her throat and ears, dark against her naked skin, made him think, briefly, of the stories he had read of pagan queens, their power and their unashamed passion.  
  
He watched them make love, Maglor and Claire, over and over, and then with himself, with Coldagnir, a rapturous, carnal intermingling of limbs, of joined bodies, of heat that burned from the inside out, each release surmounting the rest until the pursuit of it, the climb toward it were intertwined. The end was the beginning; the beginning the end, and it blended into screams and cries and the strive of body against body. Maglor took Coldagnir like hatred and fire that matched the Sun God’s own, his hand clenched in the burning hair, pushing his head down as he mounted. And Coldagnir allowed it. Of course he would, bound to the House of Fëanor. And, later, Coldagnir had taken Maglor with the same fire, blasting through one another. And Claire, fearless, had taken from the Sun all that she needed, all she wanted.  
  
It was thus when the heat came down, beautiful and relentless and famished.  
  
  
  
  
  
It was not like sleep, but the exhaustion that comes after battle.  
  
Grey light filtered into the room. The wind blustered at the closed casement.  
  
Edenel was curled between Claire and Maglor; their arms over his chest and resting on one another’s shoulders. Coldagnir lay beside Maglor. Despite the rigours of the night, Claire still smelled of her perfume. Their breathing was easy.  
  
Carefully, Edenel extricated himself, but despite his caution, Claire murmured and turned, and Maglor shifted closer to her, taking her into his arms. Despite the size of the bed, the covers were scattered, the rugs on the floor rumpled. Edenel lifted the duvet and placed it over them, drew it up to their shoulders. They might not need it; Coldagnir radiated heat.  
  
Among the _Ithiledhil_ nothing needed to be said. Once the heat was fed, their lives continued as normal. He did not know what Claire and Maglor’s reaction would be when they woke, when recollection of the night struck them.  
He remembered kissing Claire like a benediction, at the end, an apology and an act of reverence both. In her, he had felt Culina, felt Vanimórë, even Sauron’s peculiar, cold lust — and where it divided, flowering into the heat of Fëanor’s blood. And yet, in the end, in the apotheosis of the heat, she had been only and completely herself. Her lips had parted under his as if she understood, but the lingering warmth of the heat was still in them. And then Maglor, loving him, wishing he were more than a lost uncle. The star that had burned alone for Age upon Age and refused to dim, to bend to the desolation of the years. The beauty of them in their abandonment, their ecstasy, was burned on his memory like a brand. But he did not know what their reaction, in the cold, grey light of day, would be.  
  
Coldagnir’s eyes opened, fierce, burnished. He pushed himself up, looked at Maglor and Claire and smiled before he rose. His hair was still rippling flame, unglamoured.  
  
They went out onto the landing, dim with the milky pallor of the grudging dawn.  
  
‘That was magnificent,’ Coldagnir murmured, and drew Edenel into a kiss, white smile blasting winter aside before he went into his own room. At the door, he turned. ‘Thou, them. Superb. And it was very much needed, I think.’  
  
‘I should not have spoken of it, that was the catalyst.’  
  
‘It is part of thy story, Edenel. Part of Claire’s, of Maglor’s. This was the best place to tell it.’  
  
In his own room, Edenel showered and dressed, looked out of the window at the wild, wintry light. Until they woke, he could not even begin to gauge Claire and Maglor’s reactions. He had seen what was between them, perhaps unacknowledged until then, but between themselves and him?  
  
He simply did not know the answer. There was nothing owed, nothing expected. That was the way of the _Ithiledhil._  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 


	17. ~ The Darkening Sun ~

  
  
  
  
**~ The Darkening Sun ~**  
  
  
  
  
  
~ The house was quiet as all old houses seem to be in early morning; the waking time, when the heating clicked on, sending ticks through the system of pipes.  
  
Edenel buried his face in the fumes of hot tea and drank, then unlatched the back door and walked into the blustery dawn. The wind took his still-damp hair in rough fingers, helping to cool the lingering heat of the night. The great yew sighed its ancient secrets into daybreak.  
He walked up the garden to the spring which the rain and snowmelt had swelled to a pour out of the old rocks, gliding over the lip to run into the mossy ground beneath. Although he had showered, he splashed the icy-clear water onto his face, looked down into the water.  
  
‘Edenel.’  
  
He turned at Maglor’s voice. Maglor and Claire were coming up the garden. There was no anger in their expressions, no embarrassment, just a certain warmth. They came into his arms, embracing him, holding him for a long, wordless moment as the wind ran over them.  
  
‘Don’t apologise,’ Claire said when they drew back. ‘Maglor said you probably would.’  
  
He had to laugh. ‘I feel I should at least have warned thee.’  
  
‘Edenel, we felt it, we could have walked away.’ She leaned forward over the pool, and he saw her mouth upturned in a little smile as she cupped one hand over the inflow. ‘Or we could have asked _you_ to leave for the duration.’  
  
‘How art thou feeling?’  
  
‘Absolutely fine.’ She seemed to give the question all her inner attention. ‘Seriously, Edenel.’ She broke into warm laughter which he saw with relief and also a pang, for she looked so like Culina before Utumno, delighting in herself, in the night, the feeling of it in her body. No regrets.  
  
‘I have to ask,’ Maglor said. ‘If there was any motive?’ His eyes moved to Claire, who looked back, still smiling, unrestrained.  
  
‘Subconsciously, yes, I think there was,’ Edenel acknowledged. ‘I did sense what was between thee, and while I can comprehend the pain of a relationship with a Mortal, who must die, that is not the case with Claire, not any longer. I could see no reason for holding back.’  
  
Maglor said softly, ‘I am not, not now. And so I owe you my thanks.’  
  
‘It was most definitely my pleasure.’  
  
‘And mine.’ His smile, faintly roguish, wholly sensual was so like Fëanor that Edenel caught his breath.  
  
Claire returned to leaning over the spring. She said, ‘Shall we have breakfast? I’m so hungry,’ then stiffened, bent further forward. She rolled up her sleeve and plunged one hand into the water, concentrating, then withdrew it holding something bright.  
‘That’s odd. I know people use springs as wishing wells, but —‘ The object sparkled in her hand. It was a mirror about the size of her palm, but a perfect octagon. She turned it slowly. ‘Double-sided, no coating.’  
  
Maglor moved closer, as did Edenel. The grey light lay like pewter against the mirror. He felt a prickle of the scalp, but it was like the rousing of the heat within him; not dangerous, but vast and uncontrollable and almost alien.  
  
‘Strange,’ she murmured. ‘Almost as if...’  
  
‘As if..?’ Maglor prompted.  
  
‘The reflection...for a moment, I thought I saw —‘  
  
‘What?’  
  
She raised her head, grey eyes unfocused. ‘I’m not sure.’ She closed a hand around the mirror. ‘We’ll look at it later.’  
  
They went in, found Coldagnir had begun cooking breakfast. He looked around, smiled and continued, though a flash ran from like chain lightning from him to Maglor and back. The air crackled. Maglor had not yet forgiven him. Coldagnir accepted it and was willing to wait. But at Claire, he simply smiled, warmly, with distinct appreciation. Edenel observed this, wondering if Maglor had absorbed too _much_ of this world, its societal mores and laws. Jealousy was — in every way — universal, did he not know that? But all of them would need to work together.  
  
  
  
It was a strange day; they invariably were after the heat: a time of uncanny calm, as when a storm has passed over.  
Edenel went out for a walk, something he always did because, during the heat, the _Ithiledhil_ were vulnerable, or had been for thousands of years and so after, they patrolled with greater than usual vigilance. It was a reflex he could not seem to train himself out of.  
  
The rain had stopped, the clouds lifted, and the day was mild for the season. He thought, as he walked, about the mirror Claire had found. Edenel had looked in that spring a few moments before she, and not seen it.  
It was possible the rain and thaw had uncovered the mirror and he simply overlooked it, but there was no silt to hide it, only old coins tossed in by visitors who had used it (as Claire noted) as a wishing well.  
  
He paused beside the whipping grey loch, and closed his eyes. There was an impression of shattering, of bright fragments spinning, vanishing.  
  
 _What is it_?  
  
Vanimórë replied slowly, _A fragments of a greater whole, shattered in another universe. It is far more than a mirror._ He sounded disturbed, which shocked Edenel’s eyes open.  
 _Vanimórë_?  
  
 _I do not know. I cannot look, not yet. This means something — and Dagor Dagorath is too close; I cannot allow myself to become distracted. But I think...it is like the Portal, in a way. A Mirror of Worlds._  
  
Although he did not feel the cold, Edenel drew his coat around him. The chill was not of this world.  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

‘How often,’ Claire asked that evening. ‘Does it happen?’

He smiled. ‘Ah yes, I forgot to explain that. I was rather distracted.’ Claire raised her brows.  
‘Really?’

They were sitting, he and Claire and Maglor on the sofa. Night had come down and the fire danced in the hearth.  
‘It was too...elemental, too wild,’ Edenel said slowly. ‘It shocked us, that first time.’ She nodded in comprehension. ‘And more, we could not be vigilant, when we were under the spell of the heat. And we had to be, even in Taur-im-Duinath. We had discovered it was not a safe world. We decided we could not give ourselves up to it, or not often.’ He frowned down at his glass. ‘Were we wrong? Perhaps, because it became ingrained in us, an imperative, over time. We thought we controlled it but, because it was necessary, it came to control us in a way. We had to release, although in times of war we could push it away, wait until it was safe.As I did, this last Christmas, not wanting Maglor to be alone.’

‘He won’t be,’ Claire said. ‘Not now. I have to think about...disappearing.’ Her hands tightened around the whisky glass. Maglor, whose arm was around her, drew her into a tighter embrace. She dropped her head, then raised it again, to turn and kiss the line of his jaw. ‘It’s okay. I told you, it would have been my choice. But I meant you’ll never have to be alone again.’

Edenel smiled. ‘And I will return,’ he promised. ‘After. Coldagnir and I.’ He wondered if perhaps they were unneeded now. But still they could watch and ward.

Claire sat up. ‘Christmas,’ she said suddenly. ‘The winter solstice?’

‘Yes. Midsummer, Midwinter, the Equinoxes, the times that are called May Day and Halloween, here. Not the only times we can be intimate, but the times it becomes necessary.’

‘And how do _you_ feel?’ she asked. Then, with a kindness and comprehension that struck him like sun-warmth in the dark time of the year. ‘It’s not all pleasure, is it?’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It was an attempt to release, to overcome Utumno. To reclaim something of what we were, to prove we were still human, perhaps. But the truth was, we could never outrun it, never purge it. And so we live with it — and sometimes, for a time, we enact the truth of that, and our defiance of it. Please Claire, don’t cry.’

Firelit tears gleamed on her cheeks. ‘Is it not worth my tears, when I am of your blood?’

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

The _Ithiledhil_ dwelt in the great forest for year upon year, living in dry caves at the foot of rugged hills, hunting, making weapons, weaving. They tried to build a life, built there were too many gaps, too much torn out by the saw of Utumno.  
They ever alert, save when in the throes of the heat, for danger. Melkor was gone, but they knew well that Mairon had escaped, as had Nemrúshkeraz.

 

 

‘Where were you?’ Claire asked Coldagnir, who sat opposite them, long legs crossed at the ankle. He raised his eyes.  
‘I escaped toward the Orocarni,’ he said, and Edenel nodded, ‘Yes, we saw thee.’  
‘Mairon found me, and we went North and West to Angband. The Valar overlooked it. It was more of an outpost until then, but Mairon called them back, those who had scattered, even the orcs. Eventually they all made their way to Angband.’ He shrugged. ‘I had all but forgotten what I was, save for dreams that came at times.’

‘Did he guess, have a presentment, that Melkor would return?’

‘He believed it, Claire, yes. Of course he knew more of Melkor than the Valar, who only _thought_ they knew him. He planned and prepared as if he were sure that one day Melkor would come back.’

Claire took a sip of her drink, then set it down on the coffee table and picked up the mirror she had placed there earlier. She turned it slowly so that the firelight flashed red-gold from its surface. Coldagnir’s eyes met Edenel’s. _I spoke to Vanimórë, too._

_The mirror troubles him._

_Yes, and rightly._

_It is elemental, wild magic. Chaotic._

_Not of the Dark, though._

_No. Chaos aligns with nothing and everything, however._

 

 

Though the _Ithiledhil_ were never again to feel safe, Beleriand itself was at peace in those long, quiet years that melted one into another, season upon season as the leaves fell and layered the ground more deeply.  
After a time, they wandered away from the forest, but never for long. They did not often explore northward; the limit of their venturing in that direction was Amon Ereb, which drew Edenel like a touch on the heart. At times they roamed East into Ossiriand but rarely, for there were _Quendi_ there, living in the woods, beside the rivers, the folk of Denethor, and the _Ithiledhil_ were ashamed to go among them.

When they did go North, it was to war.

 

 

Edenel (all of them) felt it as approaching thunder. They had defied Melkor, but still sensed it, the pressure of a building storm — And something else: a raging brilliance that blazed in the forefront of Melkor’s black and titan power. It was shocking, puzzling, but Edenel had to put it aside to focus. If Melkor was indeed returned, where would he go, with Utumno unroofed? Edenel did not, then know of the existence of Angband which lay almost due North of them, on the borders of the Everlasting Cold. Long it had slumbered, forgotten, but now its shadow was rising, gathering to fall across Beleriand.

Mairon had prepared well for the return of his master, (Coldagnir said) although it was clear that he was not prepared for the change wrought by captivity — by the pain of his escape. Nor had Mairon foreseen what Melkor would bring with him, burning his clenched hand to black.

Maglor’s eyes ignited as he listened.

Something had broken in Melkor and knit awry. Probably it was those Ages of imprisonment, but there was something else. It was so alien to all those in Angband, that it was a long time before even Mairon realised it for what it was.

‘They never spoke to me, naturally,’ Coldagnir said. ‘Even Gothmog was merely a useful servant to them, but I was a door-ward and I heard. Even Mairon was confused at what ate at Melkor; he thought it was the Silmarils; we all did, but then Melkor began to speak of Fëanor. It was not the SIlmarils, but their maker he was obsessed with.’

Maglor nodded, his brow crooked as if thinking back. He took a cramped breath. ‘Here, or there. Yes, Melkor did try to seduce father, at least to his side.’

A look flashed between Coldagnir and Edenel. Maglor caught it, said sharply: ‘What?’

‘He tried more than that where we come from. He offered Fëanor the kingship of Middle-earth. Under him, of course. In every sense.’

There was pain in Maglor’s eyes. ‘And?’  
  
Edenel turned, took the beautiful face, so much like Fëanor’s own, between his hands. ‘It is another Fëanor, my dear, a different universe.’  
  
‘And still, I would know,’ Maglor said steadily. ‘He could not have — he would _never_ hearken to him!’  
  
‘No, nothing like that. He tried to seduce Fëanor, as I said, and Fëanor — what do they say here? Turned the tables? On him. Melkor was furious, apparently. Fëanor thought nothing of it. He himself was enraged at Melkor’s presumption.’  
  
Maglor stared. Coldagnir said softly in an echo of what he had been when he first awoke from under the Orocarni: ‘It is true. I was there when he mentioned it. And all it was, _was_ a mention. He was not ashamed of it, Fëanor; he carried neither shame not regret for anything save dying and leaving thee to carry the Oath alone.’  
  
‘I cannot imagine any reality where he did not love his sons with all his passion,’ Edenel murmured. ‘Some things are immutable.’  
  
Abruptly, Maglor came to his feet, paced to the window and dragged back the drapes. His shoulders heaved. Claire rose, went to him, curled an arm about his waist. He turned, gathered her into his arms, raven-dark head bent against her rosy-gold.  
  
Edenel looked away from them, sipped his drink until they returned. But Maglor linked his arm into Edenel’s when he sat down.  
  
‘Fëanor was Melkor’s obsession,’ Coldagnir said after a moment. ‘And the Silmarils were the only part of him Melkor could own. He knew he could never claim Fëanor himself.’  
  
‘And so he sent demons of fire to slay the Spirit of Fire.’  
  
‘Yes. And that was barely enough.’  
  
Silence like mourning. It was. Edenel said, ‘Maglor, thy father, brothers, the kinsman thou has loved and lost, are _not_ lost. They wait.’  
  
Grief limned Maglor’s face, showing the elegant line of his bones like a marble carving.  
‘And the Valar stand between.’  
< br />

‘They did in our universe, too. But the Valar are not the only ones with power.’  
  
A faint smile ghosted across Maglor’s mouth. ‘Vanimórë?’  
  
‘Vanimórë is what he is. Yes. And he has an immense sense of justice.’  
  
‘Is he another part of what is missing?’  
  
Another glance between Edenel and Coldagnir. ‘He would say not,’ Edenel replied carefully, but Maglor shifted restlessly.  
‘Too many things are missing. I think he is one of them.’ He care to his feet. ‘Excuse me. I need to think.’  
  
Claire moved closer to Edenel. He glanced at her then, at her smile, put an arm about her. She leaned against him.  
  
  
  
When they left Taur-im-Duinath, it was to find war, the first of the battles of Beleriand. Denethor, leader of the Green Elves, had fallen on Amon Ereb; the hill was a wasteland of corpses. It was only later, the _Ithiledhil_ learned that Elwë had come out of Doriath with an army. But it was too late for Denethor and for many of his people.  
  
Edenel could smell the lingering Utumno-stink on the air: that dungeon-stench he would never forget, the bitterness of violence sweated through corrupted flesh.  
The dead bore terrible wounds, as if the monsters had wanted to destroy everything that made them _Quendi_. The Nandor were mostly pale of hair, with flower-fair faces. The hair had been torn out at the roots, features disfigured by claw and weapon. That Thingol’s folk had left them where they lay did not trouble Edenel; the _Quendi_ were always conscious of the pull of the stars, of being something beyond this world. They loved the Earth but knew, in some deep part of them, that their souls were _older_ and came from a creator beyond Time.  
  
Edenel came down from the hill, saw the earth churned and dark where the orcs had fled. They were headed North-east toward the mountains. He flung back his head to the sliver of moon and _screamed_ , a chilling and feral sound the _Ithiledhil_ echoed; their hunting cry that the orcs were to fear ever after.  
  
White rage rose like a fire as they ran faster and yet more swiftly, covering the ground like a windstorm of vengeance. The stink of the fleeing orcs was borne back on the wind, a fug of fear and violence, and they could not cover their tracks. It did not take long for the _Ithiledhil_ to sight the last stragglers. Dawn was coming, and they came to know that orcs flagged under daylight. Darkness and winter were ever their allies. The sun did not incapacitate them, but it burned and wearied them, and the _Ithiledhil_ fell on them like fury.  
  
They ripped out the orcs hearts and bit into them, then cast them away as they tore into others, eating into the pack like wolves. It spurred the leaders to greater speed as they approached Mount Dolmed, but there, the ancient Dwarves of the Mountain hold of Nogrod came out and barred their path with axes.  
  
It was the first time the _Ithiledhil_ had seen the Dwarves, or _Naugrim_ , as the Sindar called them. Edenel was surprised by their appearance, but though fierce and doughty, they were clearly no creation of Melkor’s. There was no feeling of ill. Their luxuriant beards were bound with gold and silver, their weapons beautifully fashioned for killing, and their muscles iron-hard as they wielded them. The last of the orcs sent into Eastern Beleriand were cut down there in the mountains by the _Ithiledhil_ and the Dwarves.  
  
They were not close enough to communicate, but over the wreckage of bodies , Edenel raised a hand in salute, and one of the leaders responded with a nod, before turning away. The _Ithiledhil_ must have looked like demons themselves, white eyes gleaming through the mask of orc-blood.   
They washed in the clear waters of the River Ascar, and it was then Edenel noticed that the battle markings on their faces were clear and sharp, untouched by blood or cleansing. Ever after, until the war was over, those markings remained.  
  
They returned to Taur-im-Duinath. The heat of spring was on them, and they abandoned themselves to it for two days, a release after war, a cry of eternal horror and grief seeing what the _Quendi_ of Utumno had become, what they had bred.  
  
After, they gathered their few belongings and struck North once again. This was war; this was what Melkor had trained them for, Edenel thought coldly.  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ moved silently as autumn mist over the ground and, when they hid their hair, could blend into the land. Thus they crossed the fertile plain of East Beleriand, which was busy with patrols out of Doriath and learned that Elwë had withdrawn to the forest, that another orc-host had attacked the Falas, and Círdan had been forced to withdraw his people to Brithombar and Eglarest which were still under siege. Elwë (or Thingol as he was now called) could not muster a large enough force to come to their aid.  
  
It was during that journey the _Ithiledhil_ first heard of Thingol’s queen, Melian the Maia, a servant of the goddesses in the West but one who had returned to Endor. Edenel remembered Nan Elmoth, and the nightingales singing enchantment and wondered. There was rumour that she would put forth her power and cast a girdle of protection around Doriath.  
  
These things they learned, here and there as they travelled, from warriors encamped, from the edges of thought.  
  
There was no strangeness in Nan Elmoth now and the _Ithiledhil_ broke their journey there. They were waiting, none knew for what.  
  
And here, Culina left them. In Taur-im-Duinath, the _Ithiledhil_ often wandered away between the times of heat, and always returned. Edenel felt no concern for her, but when she did not return for midsummer or the autumn equinox, he did wonder. Yet still there was no sense of danger, no breaking of the link that ran between all of them. When he patrolled, alone or with others, he watched for her, but the leaves turned colour, and the forest-wall of Doriath burned gold and bronze, and still she did not come back.  
  
Culina returned with the warm winds from the South, rejoining the _Ithiledhil_ as if she had never been away. No-one questioned her absence, though Edenel thought that at times her eyes were too-grave, far away, her thought fixed on something private, secret, that brought a quiet pain. But it was not the agony of rape or torment, whatever it was. In the spring heat, she was as before.  
  
The spring bought Culina back, and shortly after, news out of the North, news that was unforeseen, unexpected.  
  
Amathon and Culina were on patrol that night, but Edenel woke toward dawn, restless, heated, as he had sometimes come back to consciousness in Utumno, feverish from poison. There was no black taint in this; it was more like to the precursor of the heat, when the heart began to beat faster and fire licked through every nerve.  
  
Even now, so long after, in another world, relating his tale in the cosy, quiet room of the Manse, he wished he had spoken to Fëanor.  
  
 _I could have warned him..._  
  
But would he have taken any notice of a stranger, when even his owns sons could not restrain him? And then it was too late, for Fëanor was gone, fire and blowing ash on the winds of war.  
  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ left Nan Elmoth, journeyed north. Between the borders of Doriath and the distant mountains that would later encompass Gondolin and the highlands of Dorthonion, the land was serene, a place of groves and clear streams. This, too, would change, and be called Nan Dungortheb, a place of horror and dread. Even now, Edenel was loath to take his people close to the mountains, choosing rather to keep Doriath within sight. Even as the days grew longer and brighter, there seemed a shadow over the mountains; for this was where Ungoliant fled from the whips of the Balrogs, breeding with other great spiders, infecting the once clear waters with despair and madness. Unknown to them, she lurked there now, spinning shadow-webs, feeding and breeding, but Ungoliant was something from the _Outside_ and there was no recognition in Edenel for the sense of danger; all he knew was that he did not want to approach the mountains. They set sentries when they rested, never less than four, and were alert until they crossed the Sirion at Brithiach — and here they found the scent of war again.  
  
The Fëanorions had landed further north, at Drengist and marched inland to camp at Lake Mithrim. Melkor, whose spies were abroad in the North, had sent great companies of orcs from Angband, hoping to destroy his enemy, but he had never seen nor gauged the valour and sheer violence of the Noldor in battle and with vengeance in their minds.  
  
The orcs who had been besieging Brithombar and Eglarest were sent North to catch the Noldor in a pincer movement, but the Noldorin outriders had already met with scouts of Círdan’s folk and were not taken unawares. Celegorm Fëanorion ambushed the orcs at Eithel Sirion, where Fingolfin would later site his great fortress, and it was the orcs who were trapped, pushed East into the Fen of Serech. There they battled for ten days, and only a few escaped to take the news of the defeat back to Angband.  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ found the tracks of the orc-army from the south, and they followed. It had been a forced march, the creatures went fast, nailed boots ripping the spring grass to churned earth.  
  
‘They must be retreating,’ Amathon said. ‘Thinks’t thou that Círdan’s folk have driven them off?’  
  
‘If so, then the Havens have no need of us,’ Edenel replied crisply. ‘We follow. And we kill.’ At Amathon’s shoulder Culina’s eyes burned lightning-white.  
  
Mountains loomed in the distance, rough-dark with pine in the spring sun; the air filled with the cool scent of fern and moss. The Sirion roared alongside them, boisterous with the snowmelt from the highlands. At times they found orc-bodies, dead perhaps of injuries received at the Havens, fallen by the wayside, or killed by their own. Some bore the unmistakable signs of cannibalism. Again, the white rage rose to a killing point. Was it guilt, that more of them (all of them) had not been saved? Edenel did not know, but his instinct was to simply destroy; such abominations could not be permitted to live.  
  
As before, they came on the rearguard, the stragglers. The orcs seemed to have no thoughts, no instinct, beyond violence, obedience and self-preservation. If any lagged, they were left behind. They did not come to the aid of those whom the _Ithiledhil_ fell upon.  
  
They must know of a northern pass through the mountain ranges, Edenel thought even as he slaughtered, as his knives flashed, dripped blood and the cries of the orcs grew fearful as they looked behind them, saw what perused them.  
  
There was indeed a pass: Sirion flowed down through a wide vale bounded by mountain walls. They passed an isle in the middle of the river, low and green. (Here, Finrod would build the tower of Tol Sirion and here, in a short few hundred years, when the tower was re-named Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Vanimórë and his sister would be born, sired on an Elven woman by Sauron). White swans, disturbed by the passage of the orcs, lifted away with great wing beats. A lone white feather drifted down. Edenel wound it into his hair.  
  
The sun sank red as a cinder, shadows lengthened across the river, whose voice ran cold in the dimness, and white mist rose among the pines. The orcs took strength from the night, increasing their dogged pace. But the _Ithiledhil_ swathed their hair in black cloth and came out of the dark like wraiths summoned by war, daggers opened throats, cut through great veins that spewed life-blood. The battle markings dimmed the pallor of their faces, but the orcs who saw them called them ‘White Demons,’ and that cry of terror went through the pack like a brush-fire. Their foe was pitiless and relentless, eaters-of-hearts and ravens came in their wake to feast on the dead. Edenel picked a fallen raven feather to hang against the white in his braid.  
  
The _Ithiledhil_ understood the orc’s guttural language; it was a corrupted form of the tongue Melkor and Mairon used, mangled by overgrown teeth and malformed jaws, but still comprehensible. From this they learned that the orcs were not in retreat: they had been ordered to attack a force of Elves come from over the Sea who had landed and marched inland.  
  
Edenel’s blood fumed like dry wood at the touch of fire. _Across the sea_? Did this mean those who had left so long ago had returned; Finwë, Míriel, Indis, Ingwë, Rúmil; was it possible that they had found that faraway land of the gods less beneficent than they hoped?  
  
The Sirion grew narrower, tumbling from the place of its birth; and here at Eithel Sirion the _Ithiledhil_ first saw the Noldor come out of ambush upon the orcs.  
  
They came like flame and fury, clad in armour supple and fine as spun-silk, tall, plumed helms, long swords in their hands. They were mounted on great horses, far bigger and more graceful than the tough mountain ponies of the moors, clean legged, with arching necks, and they crashed into the orcs like a landslide in a cacophony of war-cries, the thunder of collision and death.  
  
They struck at dawn, when the first hard rays of the sun arrowed across the East, and the light seemed to surround them, stream from them. A banner snapped out, a flaming flower, eight rays billowing; it burned like a crimson star. The leader of the warriors slew with a terrible, insouciant grace. Edenel saw a long creamy braid of hair, stippled with blood-spray whip as he turned his stallion on its heels and leaned to bring down his sword. The metal cleaved through the heavy helmet; the stallion leaped the body into another press of orcs.  
  
Edenel felt a hand on his arm. He was straining to go to them, but Arassel said, ‘They do not need us. Look how they fight!’ And: _We cannot let them see us. They may think us the enemy, too._  
  
The shame of it. The horror of what they had become.  
  
Edenel snapped a few words and they made for the rough, pine-clad foothills to gain a better view. North across a plain green with late spring, rose the northern mountain range of the grim Ered Engrin. Three massive peaks stood foremost, venting a heavy grey fume into the bright sky.  
  
 _Is it there? Does Melkor den under those three peaks_?  
  
The answer was in his bones, his blood.  
  
A dust cloud rose on the horizon and Edenel cursed, thinking it another orc army. If so, then the _Ithiledhil_ would go down, and risk being seen. Finwë might be there. He might.

It was an orc-army, but this were in full and ragged retreat, and pursued by Elves. The sun caught flashes of metal, the wind streamed through their banners: the red fireflower repeated over and over, and their cries of death were beautiful and terrifying both. There was no fear in them; only passion and resolve. They fought like a song, like an eagle rising on the wind.  
  
East of the foothills, where the Sirion and a smaller tributary converged, stretched an area of livid marsh, tussocks and reed-beds, viscid pools. The orcs were forced toward it, and surrounded. And there they died. It would ever be a cursed place, the Fen of Serech, a place of death.  
  
Ten days. At night, the _Ithiledhil_ slipped closer. Some of the orcs escaped, but few could pass their silent, lethal screen. They killed quickly, cutting throats, breaking thick necks, before tearing out their hearts. It was _too_ fast, too easy a way for the monsters to die, but their screams of torment would have alerted the Elves to the _Ithiledhil’s_ presence. They left the bodies as a warning to others, melted away when dawn broke.  
  
It was Amathon who brought the news. He had patrolled that night with Culina. Under the resinous pine-boughs, beside a little stream where the _Ithiledhil_ waited, their faces were set in stony lines.  
  
They had heard some of the warriors speaking, Amathon said. It was old news to them. (And here, Culina dropped down beside Edenel and took his hand).  
  
Finwë was dead. He had been slain in Valinor by Melkor. Míriel, whom had been his first queen, had died years before, after the birth of her only child, and Finwë had wed Indis, with whom he had two sons, both boys.  
  
It was Finwë and Míriel’s child, their son, Fëanáro, who had come, with his people and his own sons, to Endor, on a mission of vengeance.  
  
 _I never felt it. I never knew..._  
  
And so. Finwë had not escaped Melkor in the end. Finwë had gained everything he wanted: Kingship, two wives, children and, in a land where he hoped to find peace, Melkor had murdered him.  
  
Edenel closed his eyes, bit into his wrist to stifle the scream of grief. Tasted blood in his mouth.  
  
The sun sickened, turned black.  
  
 _He knew who Finwë was._ He thought of abyssal eyes raping him as surely as any physical deed. _Melkor knew he was my twin, my brother. How he must have laughed._  
  
He felt their arms around him, Claire, Maglor, Coldagnir, their lips and hands caressing, urging, and he gave himself up to them, to his needs, to his remembered sorrow. And the passion of the name he first heard then, in the pine woods, overlooking battle and death. A name of fire in the mouth, in the heart. Finwë’s son.  
  
Fëanáro. His kinsman.  
  
  
  
OooOooO  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. ~ There is no Ending ~

  
  


**~ There is no Ending ~**

 

In the darkest hours, the wind stormed up the glen, harrowed the loch’s black waters, whipped past the Manse.

Edenel dreamed, and his companions shared it as they lay tangled in the aftermath of passion.  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

Mist lay thick over the fens. Edenel withdrew his hand from the orcs mouth and waited until the stink of corruption began, bowels and bladder releasing. He tore the still-warm heart out and chewed the tough muscle as he walked away. The vapours swirled around him and marsh-lights flickered eerily over the stagnant water.  
He could hear the orcs immured in this dank place, their growls and grunts. Further away, was the stamp and clink of the great Elven horses.

After sunset there had been a skirmish by the orcs, who saw better at night, but they had been driven back with great loss. The Elves saw at least as well.

The _Ithiledhil_ did not enter the fens on clear nights, but dealt with the orcs who sought to escape the ring of steel. Tonight, visibility was poor, plumes lying low over the marshes, veiling the crescent moon. A moon like a blade. The _Ithiledhil_ could slip, silent as the mist itself, into Serech and kill.

Edenel moved those ten days through grief and disbelief that hardened into a desire to simply kill. He could not reach Melkor, though more than once he thought about making his way back to the Dark God’s lair and confronting him with Finwë’s murder. But the _Ithiledhil_ , though they understood, would not countenance it. They were one, they had come forth from the underworld and for Edenel leave them for his own death was purely selfish. They did not say it, but he knew it was so. It was _personal._ And as the Chieftain of the _Ithiledhil_ he could not put himself before them.

And so he haunted the dwindling orc pack in the fens and, when he could, sought to see the returned Elves. Sometimes he only glimpsed them from afar, proud plumes streaming from their helms, eyes burning, fiery banners held high. But twice, it was more. And both this night, in the thickening fog where the smell of death stalked the shadows. There was an orc sentry not far away, alert but oblivious of what tracked him.

The thunder of hooves came out of the night. Edenel ducked down behind a stand of tall reeds.

The stallion was black as jet, but the rider’s armour glinted in the mist like a thousand stars. On his chest blazed the Fireflower emblem, and a circlet was riveted about the helm. A king a among kings.

The horse, ridden with superb skill, swerved as an arm drew back, hurled a spear. Edenel almost felt the wind of it as it cleaved through the fog, heard the choked-off scream of the orc, the sodden thud as it hit the earth.

Another stallion galloped up. This rider held in one hand an ornate lamp that spangled the air. Neither candle nor lamp, it was like nothing Edenel had ever seen before. Briefly, he saw the two faces illuminated and, even as he crouched among the reeds, he wanted to cry out at their fierce beauty, at the recognition that hammered his heart to pain, made his breath come short.  
They were so similar: stern, sculpted features, a perfect arc of black brow, beautiful mouths. Such faces a god might have been proud to own. Wrist thick braids of jetty hair fell below the horses’ bellies.

But their eyes...their eyes...one pair molten silver, the other that raged like living diamonds in a furnace. In them Edenel saw madness, grief, rage, a hatred that would set the world aflame. Edenel knew that hatred; he carried it in his own breast.  
Then, as the other warrior touched the king’s arm, it faded a little, and there was love there just as powerful, just as passionate.

They turned, the stallions shouldering aside the mist as they galloped away.

Edenel pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, his throat closed, heart pounding in something that was more than recognition, that was something like finding the world and losing it in one breath. And over it all, a burning that reminded him of the first heady days of love.

Then he rose and, when the orcs came to investigate the sentry’s scream, he slew them.

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

He floated up from the dream, from a sleep such as he had fallen into in Utumno out of sheer pain and exhaustion. For a moment, he expected to see the pulsing red light against the black walls, to feel overwhelmed by the fresh knowledge of despair and hatred, but the languor of his body bore no memory of cruelty, no horror of rape and, as that half-world breached the universes, he saw Fëanor as he had last seen him in the Timeless Halls, turned to say something to Fingolfin, that toss of raven hair, a cloud of darkness, that brilliant smile.

He blinked, but the vision faded only slowly, and he thought: _Soon. Soon we must return._ Whatever was coming with Dagor Dagorath, he must be there.

He came to full wakefulness. The room was dark, but that was no bar to his eyes. Beside him, Maglor slept neatly on his back, and his face was Fëanor’s in repose. Coldagnir and Claire were not there. The wind thrummed about the walls.

Edenel sat up. He looked at Maglor wishing he could take him and Claire too, through the portal, into the Timeless Halls, away from danger, back to Maglor’s family. They were his; in any universe they would always be his. But in this one, Fëanor and six of his sons, others of Maglor’s kin were still imprisoned.

_Thou art their hope, Maglor._

He dropped a kiss on Maglor’s bare shoulder, remembering the first time he had seen him and Fëanor that foggy night in the Fen of Serech, then rose to wash. He pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms and, in silent bare feet, padded onto the landing. A draft of cool air leaked through the old window at the end of the hallway, a rectangle of roaring grey, and he smelt the tail-end of winter even here, so far North.

 _The cold breaks too early. Nothing is as it should be._  
Presentiment prickled over his skin like frost.

The fire in the lounge had been fed, the lamp was turned on. Claire was curled on the sofa. Edenel thought for a moment she was reading, until he saw the mirror flash. Coldagnir sat beside her. Both looked up as Edenel pushed the door wider.

‘I had a dream,’ Claire said as if resuming a conversation. ‘So I thought I’d look in the Mirror.’

‘So thou _didst_ see something in it earlier?’ Edenel took the proffered glass from Coldagnir, whose thickly-fronded lashes flickered in appreciation as they ran over his bare torso. Edenel sent him a wry smile.

‘I saw something,’ Claire said. ‘But in the dream was a mirror, shattering. The pieces spun out across Time, across the universes.’

Edenel sat down. She smiled. ‘I must have woken you. Sorry. We only came down a few minutes ago. Is Maglor asleep?’

‘Not any-more.’ Maglor said, coming in, looking gorgeous and ruffled by sex and sleep, haunted by the memory of the dream. Edenel moved aside so he could sit down beside Claire, though Coldagnir remained where he was, earning a weighted look from Maglor. Edenel poured him whiskey, then knelt on the floor beside them. Briefly, he felt Maglor’s hand in his hair.

Claire angled the mirror, moved it in the firelight. ‘I think that dream of a Mirror breaking was a vision of what this is. You said it was not there in the water a few seconds before?’ She looked up at Edenel.

‘It was not,’ he agreed.

Claire nodded, angled the mirror. Light glanced across its surface, a brilliant flash — and an image. Edenel stiffened. He saw Fingolfin — but, he thought, this was a _young_ Fingolfin, newly come into adulthood. He was sitting in some white-walked room, alone, the perfect sweep of his black brows drawn hard. And then, it was as if the watchers were within the room, and voices filled their mind: Fingolfin’s, clear as a silver battle trump, his High Kingship and authority already inherent in those ice-clear tones. And another, compelling, rich, resonant: Fëanor. One could not see him, but Edenel leaned toward Fingolfin, whom he wished, _so much_ could have been his son, just as he yearned for Fëanor to have been his. A vision in two women’s eyes and minds that had never come to pass. He could see his own features in Fingolfin, the straight nose, the set of the eyes, the jaw, the unsmiling curves of his mouth. Maglor made a sound like a man struck with a dagger.

_Fëanor, I used the mirror when we broke the journey to Ilmarin. The god said to tell thee this: “The children of Indis were great and glorious, and their children also and if they had not lived, the history of the Eldar would have been diminished”._

_So he knew what would happen, Fëanor said flatly._

_He knew it was a possibility. And thou knowest he will not coddle us. I said I wished he would just destroy the Valar, but he said it is for us to do. This is the beginning, he said, and there is no ending._ *

The children of Indis...and their children...with a flash sharp as lightning, Edenel realised what this scrap of conversation must be. From his conversations with Fingolfin, he knew that his nephew had never wished to marry, that it had been forced on him, a duty. His great love had, from youth, been Fëanor. Anger rose in him, a wave of ice, and lashed out. He saw Fingolfin turn suddenly toward the window as chips of ice clattered against the glass.

The vision melted into the wind, and another rose up, as from deep water: a great mirror, broken, fragments whirling away... _Galaxies, nebulae, comets, tumbling asteroids, planets..._ Faces known and loved and others not known but still loved.

Then, desolation. An ochre mist driven across a barren land, a glimpse of something looming through it, solid as a cliff, no...some massive edifice that loomed above the no-land like a black spike. A face came into the Mirror with the sharpness of a snowflake’s pattern slamming against a black window. Vanimórë.

He saw them at once. Shock flashed into his eyes and then a terrible expression of sorrow — more, of a grief that had no ending. It shook Edenel to the core. He said, sharply: ‘Vanimórë?’

Then everything in Vanimórë’s expression was gone, wiped away. The face was one Edenel knew well: impassive, a faint self-mockery lurking in the lucent eyes. Behind him, there was a a glimpse of water and, further away, tall buildings, the span of a great bridge.

‘I am Vanimöré,’ he agreed. ‘But not the one thou hast known, Edenel. Or rather, I am a, shall we say, _later_ version of him.’

‘What?’ It was Coldagnir, leaning forward. His eyes caught the fire in an inferno — or perhaps the fire caught the flame from him. Behind the black fire guard, the flames roared up the chimney like wrath.

‘I speak to thee from the future, Nemrúshkeraz. And I must charge thee and Edenel too, to say nought of this when thou art returned to the Timeless Halls. Thou must vow it to me.’

Claire’s legs shifted beside Edenel, muscles tensing as she leaned forward. She said, a little breathlessly: ‘You’re in Sydney?’

‘Not now, my dear Claire, and not in this world.’ Like a thorn scratch on pale skin a haunted look flickered in his eyes. ‘But in the future. The Vanimórë of Summerland is the past for me. Everything is the past.’

‘Vanimórë—‘ Edenel gathered himself, came to his feet. ‘What has happened?’

‘Nothing, yet.’ The response was light, almost flippant. ‘I speak to thee from after the Dagor Dagorath.’

Ice poured down from Edenel’s head to his heels. Under it, he stiffened. ‘ _After_? Hells, then —‘

Vanimórë’s expression was like a wall. It closed them all down, save Claire.  
‘Something happened, and you don’t want us to tell...you, if we meet you _here._ ’

He bent his head. ‘Yes, my dear.’

Which meant...Edenel was cold, cold as he had been under Melkor and Sauron’s torture, as when they hung him in the waterfall in the deep underground...

 _What happened_? he wanted to demand, to scream, but there was a wasteland behind the purple eyes. As if he knew, Vanimórë put out one hand, slender, strong, ringless...and the mirror wavered like rippling water. Edenel caught the wryness of the tight smile aimed at them all as the hand pushed (impossibly) through the small glass.

Claire stared at it, they all did. But it was she who moved first, who propped the mirror against a book on the coffee table, who reached and touched Vanimórë’s hand. She gave a tiny gasp, almost inaudible, perhaps at the realness of it. Vanimórë kept it still. Maglor frowned, but made no move to touch. Vanimórë lowered those thick back lashes with a downward smile that yet held so much sorrow...

‘It is soon,’ Coldagnir said. ‘The Dagor Dagorath?’

‘Soon,’ Vanimórë said gently. Edenel knelt again and took his hand, hard, strong, that of a warrior. It closed about his. Edenel said nothing, but looked into the purple eyes. Always, he had seen pain in Vanimórë, walled off, ignored, deemed as a weakness.  
This was worse. It was the devastation of a land raped by war, forever made barren. For a moment, Vanimórë’s hand gripped his convulsively, and then loosened, drew back into the mirror.

‘I do not wish to use power to make thee forget,’ he said. ‘What is done is done. So let it come. And I, too, have done what I must. But after...’ He looked at Coldagnir and Edenel. ‘Return.’ And then to Maglor, almost formally: ‘No more grieving, Macalaurë Fëanárion. Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is ever ended.’ But despite the promise and hope of the words, there was a look in his eyes...they clung to Maglor as if he were a spar in a black ocean. There was grief there, and (always) that deep hatred of himself, and longing for something long gone and lost. It lasted a heartbeat before Vanimórë said softly to Edenel and Coldagnir: ‘I will see thee later.’

‘When?’ Edenel’s heart beat like pulses of pain in his throat. Maglor was breathing hard. ‘Art thou speaking of thyself from our viewpoint, Vanimórë, or —‘

‘Later,’ he said.

Edenel did not know what pure strength it took for Vanimórë to smile at them, calm, even loving. But he felt it, like the point of a hooked knife in his heart. Then Vanimórë’s face blinked out, as sharp and fast as it had come.

 _I returned from the North with ice in my blood,_ Edenel thought. _But never so much as now._ He stood up, looked at Coldagnir and, with that look, drew him out of the room.

They went out into the stormy dark. Coldagnir’s hair blew across the night like a firestorm.

‘What dost thou know?’ Edenel did not raise his voice, though the wind snatched at it, hurled the words away.

‘Nothing. How could I?’

 _Thou knowest Eru._ He slipped into mind-speech, too aware, even now, of what could wait, listening in the dark. _Thou wert in the Timeless Halls from thy death in Angmar until the Noldor came to Valinor. What does he say of the Dagor Dagorath?_

Coldagnir’s eyes flamed like twin suns. _Nothing. That is, he has said nothing to me._

Edenel searched the lovely, luminous face for one flicker that would denote evasion or outright lies. And could not see it.  
 _Why was Vanimórë in _this_ world, and not the Timeless Halls?_ he demanded. _And why did he look so..._

He could not finish. He had seen that face before, in Utumno.

Something had gone wrong....Edenel had never thought beyond the Dagor Dagorath, did not even know how it might end.

 _I know, and I swear to thee I do not know why, or what has — will — happen. He said...he said he would see us. Later._ Something shook through Coldagnir’s control like an earthquake. _Edenel. Yes, I am a god whom has dwelt in the Hells and in the Timeless Halls. But Vanimöré is more than that. He_ raised himself into power. _It matters nothing that he might, Outside, already have been omnipotent, he did not know it. No-one aided him but himself. Whatever the Dagor Dagorath brings, he will deal with it. That is how he is._

Edenel thought of himself in Utumno, felt the affinity with Vanimórë, as he always had. He nodded.  
 _We have to tell him, the Vanimöré of now. I care nothing for what he said. We gave no vow._

 _I agree._ Claire had questioned him before he could demand it. He had thought her intervention, the question, impulse as she recognised the location, but had it been more than that, deflecting Vanimórë?

In the Manse, Claire and Maglor were sitting together talking in low, urgent voices. Edenel drew a swathe of wind-tossed hair from his face, pushed it over his shoulders. He said, ‘We have to leave.’

‘Now?’ Claire exclaimed as both she and Maglor stood up.

‘Tomorrow, in the morning. There is a portal up the hill a little way, behind old crofter’s cottage.’

‘Edenel, _what happened_?’ Maglor demanded, taking his shoulders in a vice-like grip.

‘We do not know, my dear. We cannot, unless Vanimórë tells us, and it is clear he will not.’

‘Then you have to tell _him_ ,’ Maglor flashed. ‘You _have to_. Something went terribly wrong and he, if I understand it aright, is — or has — had to practise some kind of damage limitation, but better to prevent it. I know what he said, but —‘

‘Yes, we did not swear.’ Edenel drew him close, felt the tremors running through the tall body. Over his shoulder, he met Claire’s wide eyes. _Yes, thou didst know we would honour any vow we made, and did not want us thus bound._  
‘He has been holding the Dagor Dagorath back,’ he said aloud. ‘I thought we would have more warning. This feels —‘

‘Precipitate,’ Coldagnir murmured. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Do _you_ not know, Sun God?’ Maglor turned to him, eyes burning silver into the raging gold.

‘I do not, but...’ His eyes veiled for an instant. ‘There is only one other power who could force it.’

Claire took a breath. ‘Eru,’ she said.

Edenel cast Coldagnir a look but said nothing to fan the Fëanorion flames.  
‘We _will_ come back,’ he promised. ‘From the Timeless Halls, wherever thou art, we can find thee. The Dagor Dagorath will affect other universes, but it is impossible to predict how. So please, be careful, and look after one another.’

‘We will but...we can’t know if _you’re_ safe.’ Claire’s voice shook a little.

‘Claire.’ Edenel came to her, took her face in his hands, rose gold hair stirring against his fingers. ‘Thou wouldst know, I am sure, through our blood. Just as I would know if anything happened to thee. Thou art of the _Ithiledhil_ of this world. We can never lose one another. I will be thinking of thee as I go into battle, the both of thee.’

She swallowed. Her grey eyes glimmered. ‘I just thought...I can look in the mirror.’

He frowned. ‘Dear Claire, I do not know if that is wise. I am not sure what it is, what it might show thee and how it could affect thee.’

‘I think I’ll take that chance,’ she said, and again, he was reminded of Culina, her sometimes reckless courage.

‘Perhaps. It was meant to come to thee.’

They were in no mood for breakfast. As the grey dawn seeped in, they dressed, pulled on coats and hats and left the Manse, following the road away from the village to where a small crofter’s cottage stood, the giant hills rising behind it. No light showed at the cottage; its small windows were draped and blank, but a jeep was parked outside, mud-splashed, a little battered.

They followed a small footpath that rose behind the house. The wind shoved at them as they climbed. Below, the loch was slate, frothed by white. The mountains wore low cloud, tattered about its skirts. A wild, gloomy landscape.  
The hill dipped again into a small valley, before it hunched itself again, lofting to the shrouded heights. And here rose a monolith, a menhir, one single stone, nameless and ancient. Any markings on it had long since been worn away, but there was a massive presence about it, tall, solitary in the shadowed glen. Claire laid her hand flat on it, closed her eyes.  
‘It feels warm.’ Her voice came hushed in the wind. Bright strands of her hair curled into the damp air.

‘All places like this are portals,’ Edenel said softly. ‘Thin places. Remember that, if it becomes necessary, but remember also, they have no alignment. Anything can use them, if they know how.’

‘I’ll remember,’ she promised.

So many things to say and now, there seemed no time. Edenel took her hand and Maglor’s. ‘Be careful,’ he said as he had in the Manse. ‘But also remember: in the both of thee is a power the Enemy fears, for he could never bend it to his will.’ He kissed them with passion and also with tenderness.

‘I wish —‘ Maglor stopped.

‘And so do I,’ Edenel said as Claire nodded and looked from him to Coldagnir. ‘But I love the children of my brother, and their children too — in any universe, and my own people wait for me to lead them to battle against the Dark.’

‘And I am bound to Fëanor by the Blood-kiss oath,’ Coldagnir said, his eyes burning in the soft murk. ‘Yes I am what I am, what I have been, but before anything and anyone I am bound to _Fëanor._ ’ He put a hand to his breast in an ancient gesture of fealty to one’s King. In the wind, his hair was running fire as if he were already shedding his glamour in preparation for the battle that would end all battles. ‘Of my own will and volition I have bound myself to him. For eternity.’

Maglor’s face changed, his own glamour slipping into what he had been, most like his father in looks of all Fëanor’s son’s. For a time, the High King, and always a prince. Balrog slayer, lord of Maglor’s gap. Abruptly, he moved, caught a handful of Coldagnir’s hair in his fist and jerked his head back. As if responding to Fëanor’s blood, Coldagnir’s throat arched back in a radiant curve of pearlescent white. The blood seemed to pulse under his flesh in a warm glow of colour. It was unbelievably erotic; even a god would submit to a Fëanorion.

‘Be that as it may, we are not yet finished,’ Maglor said tightly, and then drew him into a startling kiss.

‘No,’ Coldagnir agreed, his lips flushed and swollen. ‘No. Not yet, Macalaurë.’

Maglor, fully himself now, and blazing, turned to Edenel, and dragged him into the same kiss. Edenel tasted the anger, the agelong grief, the fear, and responded to it like lightning striking earth. The air turned suddenly cold, rain whirling into snow. He would have pulled Maglor down onto the cold, wet earth and Claire too, and Coldagnir, save that the urgency to leave, to _go and warn Vanimórë_ was insistent, almost a physical thing now. When the kiss broke, he found his arms around Claire, and all four of them joined in the embrace, the desperate savagery of that farewell.

All of them were breathless when it ended. His own glamour had been scorched away. He did not need it now.

‘We will find thee,’ he vowed. ‘Nothing, not even the end of all things, could prevent it. And I will tell Culina of thee, Claire. She will be so very proud. And I thank thee, for being with me in the Dark.’

‘I wanted to know how it ended,’ she choked. ‘But then, there’s no ending is there?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No. There is no ending, Claire.’

He drew the dagger from his belt, twin to Claire’s. ‘Macalaurë, Maglor, thou didst carry this for me for thousands of years. I ask thee now to carry it again, until I return. Keep it safe for me. For him, the Élernil who died in Angband.’ He laid the dagger across Maglor’s palms. Pain flashed across that beautiful face. Maglor said,  
‘I will.’

‘Thou didst hear what Vanimórë said? No more grief, Maglor, who would have been my grandson in another universe. Thy family, thy brothers, and others wait for thee. For the both of thee.’ He steadied himself, held their eyes, the silver and the grey. ‘Both of this world, it has to be thee who frees them. Nothing is ever ended. Nothing.’

‘I will free them.’ Maglor’s face was that of a king unconquered. ‘I _vow_ it. And thou must tell him, Vanimórë—‘

‘We will tell him; he will look into the possibilities, into every possibility.’

‘Can he change it?’ Maglor demanded intensely. ‘ _Can_ he prevent it?’

‘Yes.’ It was Coldagnir who answered. ‘He prefers not to use omniscience, as he has to become formless, part of the universe. But if he must, he will.’

The air about the stone shimmered, like heat on a summer road or about a Balrog’s wings. They turned toward it and the stone, grey, solid, blank, _opened_. A doorway was before them, galaxies slowly spinning across the cosmos, trailing starry arms, and then images, visions, there and gone in a tantalising blink.

‘Other worlds,’ Edenel heard Claire say. ‘They’re _all other worlds._ ’

Edenel’s fingers drew away from theirs reluctantly as immense gates appeared, tall, graceful towers amid green lawns. The doorway seemed to open, to encompass them. He looked back saw, for a moment, Maglor and Claire’s faces, their hair whipped by the wind, until they faded and there was only the quiet green, the immense silence.

For a moment, Edenel simply stood, battling with the wrench of loss. Coldagnir’s eyes were closed, his face strained.

‘We will see them soon,’ Edenel said wanting to believe it, needing to believe it.

‘Yes,’ Coldagnir agreed. ‘And now let us find—‘

‘Yes.’ They broke into a run, minds reaching out, through the lovely, unpeopled garden, down a shallow flight of marble steps.

There was a man walking just ahead of them, silver hair pouring to his knees, clad in the green of his ancient home. He turned huge, startled eyes on them as they came abreast of him. Edenel had always thought that looking in Elgalad’s eyes was like finding a secret pool in the forest and gazing into its depths to find that it went on forever.  
Elgalad smiled sweetly at them. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘We need to see Vanimórë,’ Edenel said, clasping his arm. ‘Hast thou seen him?’

A brief flicker of those heavy, fawn-coloured lashes. ‘I think he may be with Maglor,’ Elgalad said, and that enchanting little smile never wavered. ‘Is it urgent?’

‘No,’ Edenel said. ‘I — no.’

Elgalad looped an arm through his and Coldagnir’s. ‘Shall we have a cup of wine, and thou canst tell me everything. What is it like, living in another world?’

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

* This is from _One and Future Kings_. The ice storm that struck the lodge where Fingolfin stayed on his journey down from Ilmarin was Edenel’s anger reaching through to that universe. Even from

At the end, when Edenel and Coldagnir meet Elgalad, Maglor and Vanimórë are actually together (Magnificat of the Damned Book IV. Chapter 31: Shards of Love and Hate. http://www.faerie-archive.com/viewstory.php?sid=1906&textsize=0&chapter=31

They were still together when Eru opened the Void and unleashed Dagor Dagorath. Was it possible Eru-Elgalad was always jealous of Vanimöré and Maglor’s love/hate relationship? Especially as what transpired between Vanimórë and Maglor indicated an immense amount of trust, more than Vanimórë had ever shown in Elgalad — at least since his supposed death and return.


End file.
